Like Tea and Coffee
by Middy Miles
Summary: So. The inevitable Coffee Shop AU for the LBG series. Right here. Deryn has just moved to London with her mom and gotten a job at Rigby's Café. With civil war broken out in Austria, the young prince had no choice but to flee the country and come to school in London. Fencing teams and Friday night parties, minimum wage and news reporters make for adventures no one expected. Enjoy!
1. We sell coffee, right?

I tie the apron around my waist, fumbling with the strings in the back. It's an ugly brown color, and the logo on the front looks like a primary school student drew it.

"And there's a list of prices taped on the counter in front of the register you can look at if you don't know how much something costs," says the man-his name sounds something like Rugby, but I can't for the life of me remember what it is-leading my orientation. "It saves you the embarrassment of having to look at the chalkboard behind you."

"Great." I clear my throat nervously and scan the shop again, taking in the lounge chairs and cozy two person tables that litter the place with a nod. I can do this.

Hopefully.

"So, if you don't have any questions, I have some work to do back in the office." He raises an eyebrow at me.

"No, I'm good, thanks," I say awkwardly. If I ask too many questions in front of the manager, he'll think I'm an idiot. Better to figure it out on my own. Besides, I could just ask the other employees working if I really need to know something.

"Alright then. Eugene and Robert are working the counter with you today. Have fun," he says, though I'm not sure how sincerely, and hurries back to his office.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my apron. How hard can working at a café really be, honestly?

"What's your name, again, Newb?" asks one of the boys behind the counter. His name tag says "Hi, I'm Robert."

"Deryn," I tell him, and point helpfully to my own name tag with a wry smile. The boy glares at me with cold blue eyes, but I'm not sure what I did to offend him.

"You can call me Newkirk," offers the other boy, holding out a hand. "I love my mom, but she gave me one of the worst names in the history of the world."

That draws a chuckle out of me, and Newkirk smiles in success.

The bell above the door rings and my humor disappears immediately. I walk behind the counter and take a rag, busying myself cleaning the already-spotless surface.

"Welcome to Rigby's," Newkirk says with a genuine smile to the tall woman who just came in. "I'll take your order whenever you're ready."

The woman clears her throat. "I'll have chamomile and raspberry tea with cream and sugar, please."

Robert nods and begins to fill the order. "That will be two pounds and twenty-five pence," Newkirk says. "And what name can I put on the order?"

"Nora, if you please," she replies, pulling out a coin purse and handing Newkirk a five pound note. He measures out the correct change deftly, and by the time he's printed out her receipt Robert is standing at the end of the counter with a covered styrofoam cup. Steam trickles out the top, and written all around the lid are the words, "Caution: Contents may be hot."

The woman gives us a polite thank you and drops her coin change in our tip jar. The bell on the door jangles again as she walks out.

"See how it's done?" Newkirk asks. "One person takes the orders and the other person-or people, I suppose-fills it. It works like a happy mule."

"I've never met a happy mule," says Robert with a smirk.

"Then you've never been to my family's farm," he replies. "So tell us more about yourself, Deryn."

"Uh-" I splutter. "Like what?"

Newkirk wrings a towel out in the sink and dries his hands on his apron. "The usual. Where you're from. What school you go to. How many dead bodies you have stashed in the forest."

"Well, I'm from Glasgow originally, but we moved here to London when my mom got a job as a dental assistant. I'm starting school at Leviathan next week, and I haven't been here long enough yet to find a forest to hide my victims in." I meet Newkirk's eyes and try for a winning smile. He nods and pats my shoulder.

"You'll do well here, Deryn. Oh, and Fitzroy here throws his bodies in the Thames, so you don't even need a forest. Welcome to the city, kid."

I blink a few times and shuffle my converse on the tiled floor. "Good to know."

"You said you're starting at Leviathan next week?" Robert chimes in.

"Yeah," I say.

"Good luck," he advises. "We were an all boys school until last year. The only reason we started letting girls in was for budget reasons. Even now only a few girls have been brave enough to enroll. Fair warning, you won't be well liked." Fitzroy leans onto the back counter with a challenging stare.

"Or you'll be too well liked," mutters Newkirk, and I can feel my cheeks redden. The floor is suddenly very interesting.

There is silence for a moment, but then a phone buzzes and Newkirk jumps. "Sorry," he apologizes, pulling an ancient flip phone from his apron pocket. The thing has trouble opening, and Newkirk grumbles a little as he squints at the screen, reading a text message. "Blisters," he swears, eyes widening. "I've got to go. I'll explain later."

He rushes out the employee door, untying his apron as he runs down the street and around the corner.

I blink and turn a questioning glance to Robert. "Is he allowed to do that?" I ask.

"No," Fitzroy says, "But Rigby likes him and he's already worked a few double shifts this week. You'd never get away with it, Newbie."

I sigh. "Got it."

He looks at his watch. "I'll go bring up a few new boxes of cups from the back." His Nike* tennis shoes squeak on the tiles as he turns around and pushes the door open, walking to the storage closet down the hall.

And abandoning me at the counter.

I silently beg whatever higher power is watching over me to stop anyone from walking in. The register looks as confusing as it does old, and I don't want to think about how to run any of the drink machines behind me. I'm not much of a technology person, and I would have much preferred a job at the local pet store. But they weren't hiring, and Rigby's was.

So here I am.

Wonderful.

I'm starting at the chicken-scratch handwriting crammed on the chalkboard when the bell I've already learned to hate chimes.

Even better.

With a deep breath, I turn around to face the customer. He has reddish brown hair and startling green eyes, and as he walks up to the counter I notice that he's at least an inch shorter than me. His shoes shine and his trousers are ironed, and I immediately classify him as a rich boy.

"Hey," I say, then back track and say the official greeting. "Welcome to Rigby's. How can I help you?"

The boy furrows his eyebrows for a second, trying to decipher the chalkboard. "You certainly do sell a lot of tea," he says with a thick accent that I can't place.

"Yeah. This _is _England, you know."

He blinks, startled, and I curse silently. Insulting customers is the first thing you learn _not _to do in a job like this.

"I'll have the house coffee, please."

"Sure." I stare blankly at the register. Coffee. Coffee. We sell coffee, right? I glance at the cheat sheet taped to the counter and breathe a sigh of relief. "That will be one pound and fifty-four pence."

After a moment's hesitation, the boy digs in his pocket and pulls out a handful of cash and change. I try not to stare. My assumption that he's loaded was correct.

"I think this is right," he says, and hands over a one pound note and the right change.

"Brilliant," I tell him. It's obvious he's not from around here. For a moment I forget what to do next. "Oh! What name should I put on the order?"

"Alek."


	2. Happily Digesting Bacon

_**A/N: Welcome back! I'm glad you decided to hit the "next chapter" button. I appreciate you, so consider this chapter a reward for your perseverance :)**_

It is dark by the time I get home. My shift ended at nine, and it took another ten minutes to leave because Newkirk had to show me how turn off all the machines and lock the door. It may not be a long way away to my house, but the streets here are unfamiliar and the street lamps are far apart and it's colder than I planned for.

I toss the house key into the bowl by the door and flip on the hall light. It flickers on sluggishly, and I don't wait for it to decide whether it's on or off before I pass through into the kitchen.

Our kitchen is small, and I think the refrigerator may be as old as the house. But it does it's job well, and I snatch last night's leftovers and a jug of milk out of it. I sit in a chair at the wooden table while my food microwaves and drink the milk. Mom must already be asleep, so I don't bother to get out a glass. I feel like one of those films where the obnoxious teenager drinks milk from the carton in front of their little siblings–except that no one else is around, and I don't even have younger siblings. Just Jaspert, and he left for University this fall.

The microwave beeps, and I shovel down my food without really tasting it and hurry off to bed. I yawn heavily on my way down the hall to my bedroom, and my eyes are sagging before I hit the mattress.

It's been a long day.

I hate the sound of my alarm. I really do. The beeping noise is loud and shrill, and it somehow manages to echo off even the small walls in my room.

I can't hit the off button fast enough.

Swiping at my eyes and face to help myself wake up, I slide out of bed and hiss as my bare feet hit the cold floor. That, at least, shakes some of the sleepiness away.

A hoodie sounds like a good idea, so I pull one over my head on top of my night shirt. The logo on the front reads, "Like a boss" with the Facebook "like" icon instead of the word. Jaspert gave it to me for Christmas last year. I don't get on Facebook much, but I appreciate the humor.

I tie my hair back in a loose ponytail with a hair tie I find on my dresser without bothering to brush it out; it's Saturday, after all, and I don't care what Ma thinks of my appearance around home.

My pajama pants are a little long and drag along the floor, but I don't mind because it shields my feet from the cold. One of the floorboards squeaks loudly as I step on it.

"Is that you, Deryn?" comes my mother's voice from the kitchen.

"Who else would it be, Ma?" I chide her as I step through the doorway.

She turns to me from her place at the refrigerator, searching for something to eat for breakfast. "Your brother came to visit us for the weekend, and I thought that might be him. He arrived at about seven off the train, and fell asleep on the couch before too long."

The lightness in her voice isn't hidden, and I can't blame her. It's been months since I've seen my brother, and we've always been close.

I waste no time running to the sitting room and tackling his sleeping form. "Jaspert!" I yelp and sit on his chest.

"You're suffocating me, kid!" he wheezes, making a halfhearted attempt to push me off. He could do it easily because he's three years older and covered in a layer of muscle, but either he's too tired right now or doesn't really mind that I'm sitting on him. Eventually he settles with tweaking my ponytail.

"How's school? Did you get my email about my new job? Have you met any girls? Why didn't you tell me you were coming?" I demand, smiling from ear to ear.

He laughs. "Jeez, could you give me a chance to wake up before we play twenty questions?" I love his laugh. It's deep and honest, and when he laughs it shakes his whole body. I move to the arm of the old couch so he can sit up.

"No," I tell him remorselessly. "If I only get two days with you, then there is no time to waste. So answer my questions."

"One at a time, please." Jaspert stands up and folds the blanket he slept with, tossing it on the couch behind him and effectively unfolding it. I smile, because he always does that. He is wearing jeans and a wrinkled Oxford Aviation Academy t-shirt, which I assume he wore yesterday.

"Fine," I concede. "Which one was first, again?"

He narrows his eyes at me. "Really?"

I sigh dramatically. "Lay off. I forgot. Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

"I distinctly remember that one being last," Jaspert says, leaning against the wall and chipping off the paint that's peeling around the doorway with his fingernails.

"Just answer my question."

He laughs again and leads me to the kitchen, where Ma is frying some bacon.

"Well, I haven't seen you since you moved down here, and since I'm sure you know all college students are broke, I thought I'd be my own housewarming gift." My older brother is a clown and he knows it, and he just waits for me to start laughing.

It's hard, but I manage to keep a straight face. "That's all well, but I'm just happy because when you're here, Ma actually makes breakfast."

Jaspert loses the battle against laughing, but only when he sees Ma's face at my comment.

"Deryn!" she says indignantly, but after a moment she can't help but smile.

"What?" I reply. "It's true."

When she gives me The Look again, I hold up my hands in defense. "Hey, most of the time I love heating up a bagel in the toaster, don't get me wrong, but bacon and eggs? There's no beating that."

I really don't blame my mom for not making breakfast more often–she spends most of the day at work, and will have to leave before I do for school in the morning during the week. I just like to joke around about it, and she knows it.

And I do like bagels.

"That smells so good, Ma," Jaspert says, shoulders dropping and eyes closing with pleasure. "I have not had anything but Ramen noodles and cold pizza since Christmas."

"Thank you, Jaspert," Ma replies.

At the same time, I mumble about having the worst diet ever and still being able to look that good and how that is not fair. That earns me another Look from Ma, so I shrug. I don't have a problem with my weight, and although I like to eat, too, it isn't in the massive quantities my brother does.

We pull up an extra chair for Jaspert to sit in, and soon enough we're gathered around the table, gobbling up food like we haven't eaten in days and talking about everything that has happened in the last two months.

"Oh!" I blurt. "I remembered one of my other questions! Have you met any girls?" I waggle my eyebrows and make an attempt at a seductive face, but it doesn't work because he's my brother, and it would have been a little weird.

"Uh... no."

He hesitates too long. I jump out of my seat and point an accusing finger at him. "Ha! You're lying! Tell me everything, right now!"

Jaspert's face turns bright pink with a blush, and I know I've caught him.

"It's not a big deal," he insists, setting down his fork. "We've just been on one date."

The silence after his statement is too much for me. "And? Are you going out again? What's her name? Is she in flight school with you?"

He looks down, suddenly finding the linoleum floor very interesting. "Remember what I said about asking one question at a time?"

"Fine. Are you going out with her again?" I sit back down, forcing myself to wait patiently for his answer.

"Yes. Next Thursday we're having dinner and watching a movie in my dorm room on my laptop."

Ma is about to protest, but he holds up a hand to stop her. "My roommate will be there, Ma. No fooling around planned for the evening."

It may be my imagination, but he sounds more than a little disappointed.

"Very well." Ma is old-fashioned in the sort of way that makes chivalry in relationships important, but she loves using the internet and the microwave.

"So now tell us more about her," I prod.

"Well, her name is Amber. She is in flight school with me and we have several classes together. She's smart and beautiful. And she has the most amazing green eyes," he says, staring off into space.

I know someone with green eyes. They're the deepest green I've ever seen, and they hold so much warmth, but pain at the same time...

"What, is that all you're going to ask?" Jaspert looks honestly confused.

I blink. _Snap out of it, Deryn_, I tell myself, _you made the guy __coffee,__and the only reason you know his name is because you had to write it on the order__._ "For now. But I expect a full report by tonight. Until then, I have unpacking to do."

With a flourish, I pick up my plate from the table and deposit it in the dishwasher–another of Ma's favorite inventions. She grew up in a poor family, so even when modern conveniences became commonplace, she didn't have them.

I hop over the squeaky floorboard on the way to my bedroom. I'm in the doorway when I hear it groan behind me.

"You left pretty quickly," Jaspert begins. "And with fewer than a hundred questions. What was that all about?"

"Hmm?" I ask over my shoulder, trying to act nonchalant as I rip the tape off a box. Inside are some clothes. "Like I said, I need to unpack. I start school on Monday, and I'd like to know where all my stuff is by then."

"No, seriously," he says. "Don't think you can fool me that easily."

"This is full of Ma's stuff," I mutter, and shove the box aside. I told her she should label hers like I did mine, but she must have forgotten.

"Answer my question, Deryn." His voice is now cool. All humor has left it, and it's replaced by concern.

"Blisters, Jaspert. Will you lay off? I'm fine. Just... nervous." I don't look at him. I know what I'll see when I do, and it won't do anything to help.

"About school? Look, Deryn, if you ever need me, I'll catch the first train down and we can talk. What happened to you–it won't happen again. I know you won't let that happen."

My stomach roils and sinks, objecting to the abrupt change in mood while it was happily digesting bacon. Why does he have to bring it up? Couldn't he just let me enjoy my Saturday?

"I'm really fine." I open another box. "My knee doesn't even hurt today, and I was standing all of yesterday. It's healing. _Everything_ is," I add, willing him to leave me alone.

"Okay," Jaspert says. "But I'm here. I just want you to know that."

He turns away, and I look up.

"I love you," I tell his back. "Thanks."

Jaspert nods. "Love you, too."

_**A/N: So, in case there are some cleverly disguised, important things in here that you managed to miss, I'll give them to you:**_

_**Deryn has long hair. (Not too long, but longer than a boy's haircut. I figure it's right at her shoulders, and just barely long enough to pull into a ponytail.)**_

_**Something happened to her, obviously. I'll let you mull over that for the next few chapters before you get to know what that was.**_

_**I am taking lots of liberties with the plot of the actual book and adding more layers to the characters. I'm just keeping it interesting for you. But if you've decided already that you prefer stuff that stays very true to the characters, setting, and time period, go check out my other, completed fanfic, Orion. Find it on my profile page :)**_

_**Okay, so that's pretty much it for this chapter. You get some more Alek next time. (I put that in there so you have something to look forward to. :) )**_


	3. It's Called Coffee

I drop my suitcase on the bed with a sigh and take a sip of my coffee. Fond of tea as I am, I wanted something that would remind me of home.

"Young Prince?" a voice calls from the sitting room.

Rolling my eyes, I explain, "I'm just unpacking, Volger."

The man appears in my doorway, taking in the lavish hotel room with an unflinching scowl. "There _are_ people who can do that for you, you know."

"But then I'll spend just as much time trying to figure out where it all is. And I've got nothing to do until Monday, anyway," I say, taking a seat on the bed.

"Where have you been for the last hour?" he asks skeptically. I'm about to protest that I didn't go anywhere when the man holds up a hand to stop me. "Spare me the cover story, young prince. The sooner you tell me the truth the sooner you can go back to unpacking."

"Fine," I grumble, rolling the nearly-empty styrofoam cup around in my hands. "I was exploring. But I just went down the street!, and it was _not _an hour. Try half that. Besides, nobody tried to talk to me and I didn't tell anyone anything. I think the reporters are finally leaving me alone."

The wildcount scoffs. "You merely caught them on their lunch break. I'm afraid your story is far from the point when the public will lose interest. I suspect that you will be a topic of high priority for quite a bit longer." He pauses and looks at me sadly. "What is that?" he demands, closing the gap between us with two steps. The caterpillars that sit above his eyes lower.

"It's called _coffee_." I try to hide my irritation. "If you drank some you might not be such a grouch all the time."

The wildcount ignores my jibe. "Where did it come from?"

I bite my lip. "The coffee shop down the street. Look, I watched the girl pour it from a pot that had probably served twenty other people. I'm fine. So lay off."

To drive my point home, I down the rest of the cup. I know that he's trying to look out for me, and I appreciate the concern, but sometimes he goes too far. As if I need to be reminded how my parents died.

Volger looks me in the eyes, suddenly looking old. "I am just trying to keep you safe, Alek. Forgive me if I come off too strongly."

"Whatever." I shrug the comment off, breaking his gaze. His footsteps retreat, but I don't look up at him. All my anger washes away and then my head drops back and hits the wall with a muffled thump.

_Upset that my parents had left me home for yet another of their political travels, there was nothing else I could do. All of my classes were done for the day and I finished dinner half an hour before. My choices were to sit alone in my room all evening-which really wasn't an option; I might have died of boredom-or this._

_I crouched in the shadows behind one of the ridiculous curtains that hung heavily around a ceiling-high window. The sun closed it's big eye, and the lightness became dark and the shadows black. Approximately five minutes and someone would be by to turn on the lights._

_All I had to do was wait._

_Dragging footsteps crept down the hall, and as they grew louder my smile grew wider. Any moment now..._

_"Hah!" I leapt out into the hall, arms raised high over my head._

_The unsuspecting man yelped and bounced back a good meter. His eyes opened out to the whites and the fuzzy creature he carried on his upper lip quivered._

_"Got you," I said smugly. Recognition crossed my mind, and I realized that this was no servant come by to flip the light switch. "Klopp? What are you doing here?"_

_The head mechanic's eyes fell, and the fright of a moment before was swept away by the most awful of faces; sorrow. "Young master, I am very sorry. Something terrible has happened, and we must leave the country immediately. Two of my assistants are already packing a bag for you. Come, I will explain on the way."_

After that, much of what happened was a blur. We took a nondescript vehicle to the local airport, and during that drive my life as I knew it ended-as had the lives of my parents entirely. Poison. Klopp and Volger were fuzzy on the details and my head spun faster than a top, but I understood that much. Rebels, some hidden in the government for almost a decade, had decided to overthrow Austria and thought it best to start with my parents. A civil war would surely ensue, and so I'd been spirited away to England to avoid the same fate as Mother and Father. The plan had been to stay under the radar, but we'd barely made it off the plane when a reporter spotted me.

Two days later, and I've barely left my hotel room for all the paparazzi waiting in the lobby. Just now was the first time I had the energy to go anywhere, and I snuck out to the alley through the kitchen.

Telling the girl at the coffee shop my real name was a stupid move, but it hadn't ended badly. She didn't seem to recognize me. In all honesty, she was the only person that treated me like a human being in the last few days. Maybe it was just her job and she didn't really care, but it was nice to see a genuine smile again.

What I ran into outside of the shop was another matter. Literally. A broad shoulder hit my chest as I stepped out the door, and the air in my lungs stayed where I'd been standing while the I fell to the ground with a curse.

"Oh, blisters! I am so sorry, man! I didn't see you. Are you alright?" Wide brown eyes stared at me, and the boy extended a hand to help me up.

I let him pull me to my feet and took a moment to catch my breath. My heart pounded in my chest, sending adrenaline through my limbs like fire. I knew how to fight if I had to.

"Did I make you spill your drink? I can get you another one." The boy wiped off his hands on what I realized was an apron. So he must work there. The name tag clipped to his dark green polo read "Eugene".

I blinked and examined the to-go cup clenched in my hand, lid still secured around the rim. For a moment I scrape my mind for the correct English. "Surprisingly, nothing is spilled. Thank you, though."

"No thanks necessary. In fact, I owe you an apology. Look, I work on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, so come in then and you can get a free drink on me."

He patted my back and retreated into the shop, exclaiming loudly to the girl behind the counter what had just happened. I hurried away, searching my body for bruises and listening devices. I couldn't be too careful.

Strangely, the only part I regret about all of it is not remembering what the girl's name tag said. Maybe she'll be working again sometime I go in there. It was a quaint little place, secluded, and I could see myself spending time there in the future. If I continue to use the kitchen exit, my existence there can stay secret for a while longer.

I sigh and sit up. There's no use in moping, I suppose. My suitcase isn't going to unpack itself. It isn't a big bag-there wasn't time for anything more to be packed-but I need something to do. The only thing I've had to occupy my time is English television, and I don't care for the programs on the hotel channels.

The zipper gets stuck halfway open, and I jerk it the rest of the way, effectively tearing a shirt. I grimace and pick it out of the teeth, examining the jagged edge. I toss it aside. There's more where that came from.

Or are there?

This is all I have. Five shirts and pairs of slacks, a single pair of jeans and a few pairs of socks and boxers. I am so used to having a myriad of clothes to choose from that I don't think of where they come from. But now-I don't have another choice. When I'll have the chance to replace even some of the things I've left behind is a mystery. Even more than that, the only money we have is what we brought with us-a small fortune, but not enough to live extravagantly. Everything in Austria is frozen until the chaos there is sorted out.

I reach for the shirt again, my fingers closing around soft blue cotton and small buttons. The tear only lasts for about seven centimeters, and it's close enough to the bottom that if I tuck the shirt into my pants it will be completely hidden. I attempt to fold it, give up, and toss it in a drawer that will be for shirts.

Sadly, unpacking takes barely ten minutes. I shove the empty suitcase under my hotel bed and straighten up, rubbing my palms on my thighs. Hoffman and Bauer are off getting food to stock in the mini-refrigerator, and Klopp is raiding the gift shop for anything we can use. When they return I will speak to all of them about replenishing my wardrobe-and theirs. There's got to be a cheap store around here that sells the proper attire for the school I will begin attending on Monday.

My chest flutters at the thought. I've never been to a school with other students before. Private tutors have taught me all my life, and the idea of classrooms and a cafeteria is enough to make me dizzy. The name of the place doesn't help with the jitters, either. Thinking it sends a chill of excitement up my spine.

Leviathan.

**_A/N: And so the plot thickens! I don't really have much else to say other than my apologies that it took so long to get up the new chapter. Let all the new things you've learned (this chapter and the last) roll around in your mind before they start school on Monday! Please review!_**


	4. Don't Say You Have A Boyfriend

A/N: Sorry it's been so long since I last updated! I took a trip to the great South! Too bad they had record low temperatures and I brought t-shirts and shorts... but anyway. Here is the next chapter! They're going to school! Don't you just love going to school? *cue moans and groans* But back to the fun stuff. Reading fan fiction.

"Brilliant," I mutter, staring blankly at my schedule. The dress-code approved skirt I'm wearing itches at my knees, and the distinct urge to find some jeans instead is almost overpowering. I'd told Ma that it was fine, I could really just wear some of Jaspert's old dress slacks, but she insisted. She may not have minded sewing me a few skirts, but I certainly did.

The bleached white paper wrinkles in the grip of my fist. First day at a new school. Nothing to worry about.

It's not like I haven't done this before.

I force my fingers to relax so I can get a good look at the small black font. The first few lines are of no importance to me: name, address, grade level, GPA transfer, et cetera. Below that, my schedule. Now all I have to do is figure out where the Contemporary Issues classroom is in the next three minutes, and I'll be just fine.

I've just left the main office, and that's at the front of campus. If I remember correctly from the small map in the information packet the came in the mail, the history and social studies building is just across the courtyard and to the left. There's no time to linger here, so I take a fast pace out the doors, pulling my coat around my body tightly and cursing my thin, knee-high socks for not being pants.

"Hey, Sharp!" calls a familiar voice, and as I turn around I realize that it's Newkirk. He looks right toasty in thick khakis and a leather jacket. As he pulls up next to me, he matches my pace. It looks as though he's been running. "Sorry, I couldn't remember your first name just now. Where're you headed?" he asks.

"Uh-Contemporary Issues. Professor Wallace," I say after double-checking.

Newkirk frowns. "Then you are going in completely the wrong direction. History building's that way." He points to my left at a stout brick building. "It's a bugger that they're not labelled, but once you get used to it you'll never get lost again."

I change directions quickly. "But until then I'll be wandering around like a chicken with its head cut off," I mutter, my breath fogging in the cold air.

The boy chuckles. "An amusing mental picture." I scowl and punch him in the arm lightly, and then smile. "Come on, Sharp, you punch like a girl."

"Surprising, that," I muse drily. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

"Of course, but I'm notorious for being late to class. You, on the other hand, should get going. My bet is that you've got ten seconds to get to your classroom before the bell rings. Off with you now!" Newkirk laughs, and then breaks into a sprint for somewhere else. I would figure out where he's going, but I'm running the last six feet to the door. I only hope there aren't many different rooms in this building.

An obnoxious buzzing noise that I assume is the bell goes off just as I find the door with the name "Wallace" printed on it. I curse under my breath and pull on the knob.

"Mr. Fitzroy, if that's you, you can just take yourself to the office immediately. That's five tardies in three weeks." The wiry man behind a desk, staring at a computer screen, looks up at me. "Oh, my apologies. And you are?"

I blink. "Deryn. Deryn Sharp." I dry my sweaty palms on my skirt and add quickly, "I'm a new student."

The professor's eyes narrow. "Indeed. Please take a seat. Your schedule does say Contemporary Issues, yes?" I breath a mental sigh of relief. At least I didn't show up at the wrong class. "Oh, and Miss Sharp? Try not to make tardiness a habit, if you please."

I nod hurriedly, though only to show him I was listening. I don't care if his first impression of me was of showing up late to class.

The only empty seats are in the back corner, which I don't mind. I take my seat quietly and pull out a notebook and pencil. After a few minutes I digress to doodling birds and trees on the paper. It's really more of a current events class than anything, and only interesting to pay half-attention to.

"And does anyone know what happened in Austria last Friday?" There is a short pause, and I continue to sketch. The professor sighs. "No one? Then I shall inform you. Friday night at approximately eleven forty-five, the Archduke and his wife were murdered in their sleep. Poison. Following that, riots broke out in all the major cities of the country, and now it is in an official state of civil war. The rebels call themselves The Federation for Equality. They leaked a statement to the press on Saturday on their purpose and goals, which we will be reading as soon as I can get the full document. As for the situation in Austria, thus far we have no idea how many people are injured, captured, or dead."

His tone, originally disappointed, is now laced with sadness.

A boy sitting in the third row pipes up. "What about the prince? My sister is obsessed with him. She literally keeps every issue of Teen Magazine with him in it."

The professor sighs again, now back to the dispirited old man he was when I walked in the door. "He fled the country."

"Should go to the U.S." another kid muses. "Seems like a good idea. Have you seen all the girls over there? Blisters, what I wouldn't give for a trip over there."

My pencil halts in it's path across my notebook. I can hardly believe what I'm hearing. We've just been told that war has broken out in a country not so far away and that people have died, and all they care about is American girls? My grip on my pencil tightens, and I hear it crack before I force myself to calm down.

"No, I heard he snuck across the border to Switzerland. From there, either he went to France-or came here!" The boy snickers. "You think your sister has a crush on the guy, Matt? You should see mine. Alice practically faints whenever she hears the lad's name. All she could talk about last month was the article about him in that stupid magazine!"

I swallow hard and try to tune them out. They're not worth my time. Instead, I retreat into my thoughts. In all honesty, I've never really liked Teen Mag. I prefer Science News or National Geographic, regardless of how lame that sounds. My singular friend at my last school, Hannah, loved it, and forced me to read one Q&A with the guy. He sounded like a pompous jerk, boasting about his wealth. Either the prince or the writer of the article went on at length about how he was single for now, but really wished the right girl would come into his life-someone pretty girl who didn't have a brain and would follow him around like a puppy dog, no doubt.

Not that I don't feel for the guy-trust me, I know what it's like to lose a parent, and I can only imagine how terrible two of them would be. I just think that maybe he needed something to pull him back down to earth, though something less traumatic would be much preferable.

Blisters. So long as he isn't my problem.

After forty-seven minutes of Contemporary Issues, the bell rings again, and I'm pushed out into the short hallway. I pull out my schedule, now wrinkled from being in the pocked of my jacket.

"Hey there," says the boy that was sitting in the third row. It takes me a moment to realize he's talking to me. "So you're new, huh? Mind if I walk you to class?"

I blink at him. He's got pale skin, jet black hair, and sharp eyes the color of ice-although I've been thinking about green eyes since Friday, they are captivating-, and I can't help but notice that his muscles are well defined even under the navy blazer. I have to tear my eyes away and look at the next class on the paper. "Assuming you know where the fencing gym is, then I'd love someone to walk with."

The boy grins wide. "You fence? Nice." We slip into an easy pace, walking close to each other.

"Haven't touched a sword in my life, honestly," I admit. "But it seemed like a better option than regular gym class." I shrug, brushing a stray piece of hair behind my ear. As my hand drops back to my side, it brushes his. I can feel blood rushing to my cheek and curse myself for acting like a ninny.

"Good choice," he says as if he didn't notice. "Took gym my first year here, and I almost fell asleep playing volleyball once. The barking thing hit me square in the face and nearly broke my nose. Now I fence, too, but I don't have class until the end of the day. I'm team captain, so I hope to see you on the competition team soon."

I swallow. Of course.

"I'm Matt, by the way. You said you were Deryn, right?" We take a right toward a massive building that I assume holds the two gyms, cardio room, and weight room.

"Yeah."

"Where'd you transfer from?" Matt asks, alternating between glances at me and the path ahead of us. "We don't get many mid-semester new students, especially not girls."

"Glasgow, actually. My mom got a job in London and-uh-couldn't leave me behind. So here I am," I tell him, avoiding his gaze.

"Hmm. Never met a girl from Glasgow before. Tell me, are all of you so good looking?" He asks, waggling his eyebrows.

I stumble, almost falling over in surprise. I don't know when the last time a boy my age called me good looking was. "Ah-I wouldn't know. I didn't really pay attention to them."

The door to the gyms is looming closer. "Wait. Please don't say you have a boyfriend." He turns a pleading face on me. I laugh awkwardly.

"No, I don't."

We're standing at the door now, and his puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me from fleeing inside and looks me straight in the eye. "Then maybe you want to go to a party with me on Friday."

I take a deep breath. "Yeah. I'd like that."

The smile on Matt's lips doubles in size. "Great. I'll meet you in the courtyard at nine."

"See you there."

"Have you ever fenced before?"

"No," I tell the fencing instructor frankly.

"Then why are you in my class?"

"Because it's on my schedule, and I love a new adventure." I cringe a little at my sarcastic tone. It won't do me any good to get on the bad side of a giant with a sword.

He gives me an angry glare, and then turns to the other kid-he's new, too, which doesn't match up with what Matt said at all. The boy looks very familiar, but I can't place the reddish hair and green eyes.

"And you?"

"Uh." he swallows. "N-not a day in my life, sir." His accent sounds strange.

The beefy man sighs. "Well, that's brilliant. The two of you can be partners, then. Off with you! Gear's in the bins in the closet. Choose wisely, because they're yours for the rest of the year."

The other new kid and I walk to a faded wooden door that is scored with slash marks. I pull it open and beckon him inside.

"Do I know you? You look barking familiar." I follow him into a large closet after finding the light switch. A dingy light flickers on and leaves shadows in all the corners. There are a multitude of blue cloth bins filled with what I assume is fencing equipment. I shrug and pull a hard mesh mask out of one.

"Not that one," the boy informs me. "See how it is dented on the face? That will ruin your line of vision. Here, have this one." He hands over a mask with a smooth surface that looks almost new. There's a similar one in his other hand.

"Didn't you say you'd never fenced before?"

"I did say that. Yes. Uh-I am Alek. I mean I am Ryan. My name is Ryan, but I go by Alek," he explains too quickly, eyes darting around. I don't believe him for a second, but I don't care that much, either.

"Whatever. Got any more tips on gear? Please tell me I can get out of this skirt."

Alek looks visibly relieved. "You will have to wear a protective suit, so yes." He goes down the line of bins and chooses a few of everything, handing some to me and keeping the rest. "These ones."

"Thanks. Why aren't there any swords in here?" I ask, searching for them.

"They are called rapiers," Alek says, rather stiffly. "Not swords. And they are on a rack in the instructors office; I saw them when I walked in."

He rubs his palms on his dark khakis, eyebrows furrowed over startling green eyes. Suddenly, I remember where he's from. "I served you coffee!" I exclaim, pointing a finger at him. I can't believe that I hadn't realized it before, because he's been on my mind since-or, at least, until I met Matt. "That's where I know you!"

"No you didn't," he lies.

"Yes I did. You ordered coffee, and I had no idea where it was because Friday was my first day; I didn't even know if we sold it! And I know your name is Alek because I wrote it on your cup."

If anything, he's almost panicky now. "Yes. That was me. But-listen. I-uh-wasn't really supposed to be there, so-"

"Yeah, sure, I get it. It's cool. Come on, we've got to go learn how to sword-fight. Fence, if you prefer," I add with a wink.

We change into the gear in our respective locker rooms-the girls' little more than a repurposed supply closet-and join the rest of the class. The metallic clang of blades colliding fills the gym, but Alek and I aren't given one. The human giant, Mr. Wrathbone, shows us the basics of stance and commands us to stand with perfect form for the rest of class. I spend most of it mumbling about gym being more fun and much less painful. My arm aches after five minutes.

"This isn't bad at all," Alek says, trying to lift my spirits. "Volger once had me stand for three-" He stops speaking abruptly. "Never mind."

I don't reply.

"You're putting too much weight on your front foot," he instructs, almost as though he can't help it. "It needs to be even, with your feet at a right angle."

"You sure do know a lot about this fencing business for someone who hasn't fenced 'a day in his life', you know that?" I accuse, tired of the boy already. Nonetheless, I shift my weight back a squick.

"I lied, alright?" he hisses, tilting his head to see if anyone heard him. "And do not ask why, please. I can not tell you, so trust me when I say that I have my reasons."

I take a deep, steadying breath and focus on the ache in my arm instead of the anger in my chest. "Fine. Can you at least tell me how long you have been fencing?"

His arm droops ever so slightly, and he gives me a look of utter bewilderment. "I began when I was young."

"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" I say, exasperated. Spending the rest of term as this boy's fencing partner isn't shaping up to be very entertaining. Frustrating, if anything.

I may not have a barking haughty prince to deal with, but this boy may be just as difficult.

A/N: Teehee. You see what I did there. Please review!


	5. School of Indiscriminate Gender

A/N: Okay, I'm not going to lie. Although there are some juicy tidbits in here, this is mostly a filler chapter. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't read it! You should. Definitely. And enjoy it, too :)

After a thoroughly unsatisfactory fencing practice–I felt like a young boy again, though instead of Volger's hard glare I faced Deryn's, and for entirely different reasons–I find myself on the way to Auto Mechanics I. The shop is right next to the office where I got my schedule a few hours ago, so I have no trouble finding it.

I take hold of the door handle, feeling flakes of rust come off in my palm, and pull the door open. Inside is a large auto shop, as I suspected, and about fifteen desks crowded into a section of the room with a chalkboard hung on the wall. Two cars and a lawnmower wait to be worked on, hoods popped to reveal the mechanical guts inside. I smile at the idea of being able to get my hands on metal again.

Back at home, it was my only release from the constant obligations of being a prince. I would tinker with old, out-dated models endlessly, feeling the grease under my fingernails and breathing in the stench of metal. Any time I wasn't at a dinner or in fencing practice, I could be found out in the shop. My stomach aches and my eyes burn remembering it.

A few more boys pile in through the door and drop their things on a desk. They toss their jackets off and roll up their sleeves, turning their gazes to the grizzly man sitting at a computer in his office. After a moments the bell rings and he stands up, revealing jeans instead of khakis, and a bulky sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up past his elbows. It seems that this is one professor who doesn't have to follow the dress code.

Soon enough, I've taken and passed an exam on the proper rules and procedures of the shop and have dived into one of the projects. When the bell rings, I sigh and gather my books, thinking that I would rather spend my whole day doing this than my other classes.

After surviving Algebra II, my stomach rumbling the whole time, I make my way to the cafeteria. Luckily I don't have to stand in the line that circles most of the room because Volger insisted I pack my own meals. I told him the chance that someone would take the care to poison my meal specifically–or, worse, the entire schools'–was extremely thin. He made me take my own anyway.

Any chance at all is too much of a chance, after all.

So I clutch the thermal lunch bag in my right hand, scanning the tables for a friendly place to sit. In all, I count about ten girls in the whole cafeteria, Deryn among them. She's standing near the front of the line, faded blue lunch tray held lazily in one hand. With the other, she brushes a stray piece of blonde hair away from her face.

It takes more effort than I care to admit to tear my eyes away.

I came here to survive a war, not meet a girl.

Sighing, I find an empty table and sit, opening the velcro seal on my lunch bag. Inside, I find a Lunchables and a bottle of water. It's hard to poison prepackaged goods, especially since it's been with me all day. And I am excited for the Lunchable, because I've never had one.

"Whoa, Newb, this is our table," says a voice behind me. I immediately sit up straighter, spine prickling with indignation.

"I didn't realize," is my reply, not turning around to face whoever is behind me. A tray plops down next to me on one side, and seconds later on the other.

"Lay off the kid, Robert," the boy on my right side chides. "If he's new, then he couldn't have known whose table it was."

The first boy scowls and opens his mouth to speak when the other holds up his hand.

"Logic."

I bite back a laugh.

"I'm Eugene, but please just call me Newkirk," the nicer of the two continues with a devious grin. I recognize him just as he does me. "Hey! I knocked you over outside Rigby's!"

I blink a few times, letting my shoulders drop. It's impossible to avoid these people. "Yes."

"I hope I didn't scuff you up too bad," Newkirk says. I gesture to my elbow, showing a thumbnail-sized scab.

"Aside from a bruised elbow, I'm no worse for wear, thank you," I reply with a small smile.

"Again with the thanks! I'm telling you, Fitzroy, I was running back in to work, and this kid came out of nowhere and I just plowed him over. And then–get this–he thanked me."

I smile slightly. "It was for helping me to my feet."

"Yeah, but I would have been cursing like a sailor. And probably punched the other guy, too. So that's the difference between you and me," Newkirk laughs.

There are more differences than you could ever know, I think wryly.

Newkirk goes on to say something more, but he talks so fast it's hard for me to understand him, thick British accent aside. So I just nod hesitantly.

The two boys shovel a few bites of food in their mouths, and I break the cardboard seal on my Lunchable and tear away the plastic. Inside are a few crackers and an equal number of ham and cheese slices.

I frown. This is hardly one of the banquets I used to enjoy in Austria, but I suppose I expected that. Although, the school lunches do look more appetizing. And warm.

Suddenly, Newkirk's arm shoots in the air. "Sharp!" he calls. "Over here!"

I follow his line of sight and see Deryn standing in the middle of the cafeteria with a tray in her hands, looking lost. Her eyes light on Newkirk, and she weaves through the tables toward us. "Hey, guys," she says, setting her tray next to Newkirk's.

"And how are you enjoying your first day at Leviathan School for Boys?" Newkirk asks, then amends quickly, "Or Leviathan School of Indiscriminate Gender nowadays, I guess. Or something like that. What exactly is our official name now?"

"Leviathan Private School," Fitzroy offers, then goes back to mulling over his lunch quietly.

"Right, that."

"It's fine," Deryn says, and heaps some mashed potatoes onto her spoon.

"So how did you end up here, anyway? There are about a dozen private schools in London."

She hesitates just a little too long. "Scholarship. Leviathan ended up being the cheapest option."

"I'm on scholarship, too, though I'm sure I don't look it." Newkirk turns to me. "And how about you..." he stops. "Sorry, I don't know your name."

"Ryan," I tell him, though it feels foreign in my mouth.

"Ryan," the boy repeats. "Why'd you come to Leviathan, then?"

I stare at my cheese-and-ham cracker sandwich. To escape my war-torn country. For my own safety, so I wouldn't meet the same poisonous fate as my parents. "The fencing team. I heard it's great."

Deryn bites back a smile. I follow her lead and grin, and I can almost convince myself that it is sincere.

"So do you fence, then, Ryan?" Fitzroy asks, suddenly interested.

This time Deryn scoffs outright, but I choose to ignore her, spreading my hands in a gesture of defeat. "That would depend upon whom you ask," I say wryly.

Fitzroy raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"Uh..." I offer stupidly, at a loss for an explanation that won't reveal who I am.

"The official story is that he doesn't fence, but in truth he does. Since he was a wee boy, for that matter," announces Deryn, giving me a wicked grin. "And he likes to be called 'Alek'."

I'm about to respond when a boy walks up and puts his hand on Deryn's shoulder. "Hey, want to come sit at my table, Deryn?"

I try not to scowl at him. Strangely, the phrase "tall, dark, and handsome" comes to mind, which only makes me dislike him more. Right after I think it, I curse myself for being so shallow. As our gazes meet, I can't help but narrow my eyes. He follows the gesture, and it becomes glaringly apparent that the two of us will not be friends.

Deryn glances between the boy and the three of us, biting her lip. A moment later, she stands, slinging a backpack over her shoulder and picking up her tray. "Yeah. See you later, guys."

As she walks away, I feel strangely betrayed.

"Blisters," Newkirk curses. "They got to her before we could save her. We were too late." He sighs and stabs his mound of mashed potatoes with fervor.

Startled, I ask, "What?" which earns me a condescending look.

"You are familiar with the clichéd but accurate high school hierarchy system, right?"

It takes a moment for me to puzzle through the translation, but I nod slowly. I've never attended public school, but I have seen many movies involving high school students.

"You just met the 'king', though I die a little inside admitting. Matt Weldon. He's captain of the fencing team and a complete tosser," Newkirk informs me bitterly. From his tone of voice, I assume a "tosser" is a bad thing.

I frown. "Then what does that make you?"

"I like to think of myself as Peter Pan." He grins viciously, but after a moment it falters. "But to most... I don't know. A fruit seller or something. But I like that. Everyone else... they don't seem to realize that the power they get from being in the 'popular' group isn't real–and so is their happiness. So my job, see, is to save people from that.

"And he got to her before I could. I only hope she's smart enough to realize what kind of a person he really is." Newkirk flicks some food around on his tray, and Fitzroy looks around, sighing.

I still don't understand. "So... why don't you just tell her?"

He laughs. "If only it were that easy. I'd get my bum stabbed through with a foil, and she wouldn't believe me, besides. She'll either see for herself in time or become one of them. And until then, there's nothing we can do except be there."

Staring at my lunch, I can't help but compare Newkirk's analogy of high school to my own life. I'm a prince, and though I never held a claim to the throne I suppose I felt higher than those around me–but where am I now? Sitting in a cafeteria with the same people I used to look down on, eating crackers. There had been times I thought I was happy, but there was always a sense of fragility to it, as if it could be shattered at any moment.

And that moment came the night my parents were assassinated.

Though I'm not happy now by any means, I do feel different. In a way, I've experienced more in the last four days than in my entire life. And I have yet to decide if that is good or bad.

Looking at the boys on either side of me and at Deryn, who's just taken a seat next to Matt, I sigh. It's likely I'll be here more than long enough to figure that out.


	6. Jellyfish Especially

A/N: I'm not going to lie. This chapter is kind of intense, despite the title. So enjoy it :)

To be honest, I'm not quite sure if it's possible to decipher the chalkboard behind the counter. Whoever wrote on it last has the handwriting of a five-year-old, all cramped and uneven, and it's smeared enough that the likelihood of its being properly wiped off before the lists were last rewritten is slim.

"Newkirk, can you read the chalkboard?" I ask absently, twirling a cleaning rag around in my hand.

He looks up from his task of mopping up a recent spill to reply. "Hmm? Yeah, I can read it. Why?"

"Because I'm having trouble. Who wrote all that, exactly?"

"I did." He returns to his mop a little dejectedly.

I blink and raise my eyebrows, trying to find a good way to phrase my next question. "Oh. Uh–do you think Rigby would mind if I rewrote it? Maybe used a few different colors of chalk to liven it up?"

Newkirk narrows his eyes at me over squeezing out the mop in its yellow bin. "I don't think he'd have a problem with it, so long as you don't change any of the prices and he doesn't have to pay for the new chalk. And you don't have to avoid saying that I have terrible handwriting, you know. It's a well known fact. I think they even put it in the last edition of the Oxford Encyclopedia."

My mouth opens and closes, but no words come out, so I just shrug.

"The hardware store on Fifth sells the best quality chalk, and they have about ten colors. That's your best option."

"Thanks."

He returns the mop to the supply closet and turns to me. "So are you an artist or something?"

"How'd you guess?" I scrub at a coffee stain for a moment, but there's no need because it blends in with the dark-stained wood of the counter so well.

"You doodle on your Advanced Comp notes. I really like your birds."

"Oh," I say, reddening. "I–uh, I like things that fly, you know? Birds especially, because they don't need any help."

"Sure, I know the feeling. But I prefer underwater stuff. Whales, sharks, the like. Jellyfish especially."

I snort. "Jellyfish?"

"I can relate to them so well because that's how I look when I try to swim." He pulls a face and mimes what I assume must be a swimming motion, but event that's a stretch.

"Then I suppose I should be an ostrich?" I offer around a chuckle, straightening my apron.

Newkirk lets out a sharp laugh, but cuts off abruptly when the bell on the door rings as it's opened. Stepping through the door is Alek, a cap pulled low over his head. He's ditched his posh clothing in favor of a baggy sweatshirt and faded jeans, so it's surprising I recognize him.

"I dig your new threads, yo," Newkirk says after a moment, earning him my glare. I didn't even understand him, so it's more than safe to assume that the foreign boy hadn't a clue.

"Pardon me, but what did you just say?" Alek looks genuinely confused and just a little panicked.

"Don't mind me. I'm practicing an American accent for the school play."

"He likes your sweatshirt," I clarify, and instead of letting my eyes linger on his slim jeans I glance down at my watch. Eight thirty-seven.

I have to meet Matt at nine.

Or, rather, he's picking me up here then. When I realized that I was scheduled to close on Friday night, we arranged it so he'd come get me when I was done. I've been looking at the clock all afternoon, waiting for the hours to trudge by.

"I'm sorry, Newkirk. Uh–your American sounds very nice. I can't understand a word any of them are saying, either." Alek smiles halfheartedly, more rattled than he should be from Newkirk's banter. Something else lurks beneath the surface of his green eyes, but it's been there since we met.

He rests his palms on the counter, tapping fingernails on the wooden surface. "What is on special today?"

"Bovril tea," I inform him, dredging up what Rigby told me when I arrived just after school.

One of the first genuine smiles I've seen from Alek lights up his face. "Brilliant. I quite enjoy Bovril. It is one of the only teas I like."

"Exactly," I agree. "Bovril's my favorite."

When I was young and Da was still alive, every Sunday morning before he took Jaspert and I to church–though she doesn't look it, Ma is strictly agnostic–he would boil a pot of water and make Bovril tea for us. I can remember watching the steam rise up from my chipped cup, almost too big to fit in my little hands, and watching Jaspert yawn wide enough that I could stick my fist in his mouth. Those mornings–they were so normal, so commonplace, that I never thought about them much. But now when I make myself a cup of tea on Sunday mornings the memories fill my mind as full as my mug, steam coming off them as though they were made moments before.

"I'll have that, then," Alek says, and reaches into his pocket.

Newkirk, holding out a hand to stop him, replies, "No, I've got it. I said you got a free drink next time you came in, remember? I keep my promises." He tosses the money on the counter and sets to readying the tea.

I blink a few times. "When did you tell him that?"

He holds a lever in the coffee maker down and lets hot water run into a styrofoam cup. "When I knocked him over last Friday outside the shop, on my way back after I had to run and unlock the apartment for my sister."

Laughing a little, I nod. "Yeah, that. Does she always forget her keys?"

"Most days, yes. I keep telling Ma that we should just leave one under the rug outside, but she doesn't trust the rest of the tenants not to break into our apartment."

Alek smiles, shuffling his feet on the tiled floor as he moves to stand at the end of the counter. He watches Newkirk add a scoop of beef extract to the water and stir it around for a time, waiting for it to dissolve. The red label on the bulbous jar of extract proclaims its brand loudly, a sight as familiar as my own reflection. Since I was little, we've kept a jar in the house, and they never last long with how much we use the salty beef additive.

A lid is snapped on top of the cup, and Newkirk hands the drink to Alek. "You're welcome to stay and sit, if you like. The couches are very comfortable."

The boy glances at the storefront as if looking for something through the wall-to-wall windows. "I think I will, thank you. What time do you close at night?"

"Nine," I say as I tear off the printed receipt and toss it in a waste bin.

"That seems rather late for a coffee house to be open, don't you think?" he asks, taking a sip of his drink.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Newkirk agrees. "But you'd be surprised how many people come in close to closing time. We're within walking distance from the University of London, so we get loads of students that come down for a shot of caffeine when they've got schoolwork to do. Especially around finals week–then it gets absolutely barmy."

Alek looks around warily. "What's your least busy time of day, then?"

"Between five and seven. That's when everyone's at dinner." He narrows his eyes at the red-headed boy for a moment, trying to puzzle through the interrogation. "Rigby once tried having half-priced coffee then, to bring in more traffic, but it didn't help much."

I hear the bell on the door jingle and turn away from Alek to see Matt in the doorway, pulling a hat off his head. Startled, I look at my watch. We don't close for another ten minutes.

"Hey, Matt," I say, smiling despite myself. The cold from outside has tinted his cheeks pink, but his eyes are as bright as ever. They match his light blue jacket so well they could get lost in it, and his jeans are as dark as an approaching storm.

Newkirk glances between him and me and announces, "I'll go get some more creamer from the back," and slinks through the door to the storage room. I pretend not to notice him or Alek, who squares his shoulders and sits up straighter, staring at Matt's back as he walks to the counter.

"Deryn, it's good to see you. I know I'm early, but I wanted to make sure I could find this place. It's rather small, isn't it?"

"Ye–yeah, but that only makes it more cozy," I reply. "Would you like something to drink while you wait? Bovril tea is on special today."

He wrinkles his nose, head shaking. "Not a fan of Bovril. I'll just have green tea, if you don't mind. Pomegranate infused."

"Coming right up," I say, and after he pays me I pull a cup off the stack and begin to prepare his tea. "So where did you say the party was?" I ask. He told me Wednesday morning while he walked me to fencing class, but I can't for the life of me remember what he said.

"Lilit Zavenian's house. Do you know her?"

I hand him the steaming cup after putting the lid in place. "I think we have English Lit together. Look, all I've got left to do is mop, so you can have a seat until I'm done."

"I'll do that."

I pull the mop out of the cleaning closet where Newkirk stowed it a few minutes ago.

"Oh, hello Ryan," Matt greets Alek as he sits on one of the dull brown armchairs. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Then you can imagine my own surprise," he replies coldly. The two haven't gotten along well since they met on Monday, though I'm not quite sure why. There are so many things about Alek that just don't add up, and I want badly to put the pieces together. I don't like being in the dark like this, and that boy is midnight black with mystery.

"Do you come here often, Ryan?" His tone is pleasant enough, but I've spent enough time with him this week that I can sense the challenge hidden beneath.

Alek smiles sweetly, razor blades hidden in his grin. "Only on the days when Bovril tea is on special. It's my absolute favorite." He holds up his cup like he's just made a toast and takes a drink.

My eyes dart to the clock on the wall, and I'm almost too glad that nine o'clock is in just two minutes. I bite my lip, and the shop is awkwardly silent as I finish mopping.

"Well, I suppose I should be on my way," Alek says finally, standing and brushing forehead-length hair to one side. For an extended moment, he looks Matt square in the eye, and I can tell a sort of understanding passes between them. He shoulders past the other boy and sets the bell on the door ringing loudly as he exits, almost like it's as upset as he is.

Five minutes later, I've turned off all the burners and lights, and Matt and I are standing outside. Newkirk locks the door like it's something he's done a thousand times and starts home. I call a goodbye to him as he's walking away, and he doesn't look over his shoulder as waves back. Matt hands me my jacket and I slip it on, and as my hand snakes into the sleeve, I find his waiting hand at the other end. Surprised, I let mine slide into his, and we walk together to his car.

Monday mornings are never fun.

I almost fall asleep in Contemporary Issues. Even doodling on my notebook fails to wake me up. I should be paying attention to the lecture, I know–mostly, it's about the civil war in Austria, and the possible repercussions it could have on the UK. Alliances can't pull multiple countries into opposing sides like the world wars did, but that just makes the lesser of two evils. Nevertheless, the prime minister is contemplating if England should take action and whether to side with the seated government or the rebels.

The bell rings, and as we rush out the door the professor hurriedly assigns that we find one new fact about the Austrian civil war before class tomorrow. In the hallway, I find Matt waiting for me.

"Hey, Deryn."

As I look into his eyes, the memory of his lips pressing against mine surfaces, hot and tasting slightly of alcohol*. My heart skips a beat at the thought.

Our hands fit together absently, like pieces of a puzzle. I run my thumb along the back of his hand, tracing the musculature of his wrist made from long hours of gripping a fencing foil. "So did you have fun on Friday?" he asks, leaning his head down so it's level with mine. He only has an inch on me, but the way his hair brushes against my forehead sends a shiver up my spine.

Keep your head, you ninny, I tell myself harshly. It was just one kiss. Much to my disappointment.

"Loads," I reply, my gaze shifting between him and the walkway toward the fencing gym. I'm still sore from the daily practices last week, and I'm not entirely looking forward to another one, but the first tournament is in a fortnight. And, seeing as I'm one of five girls on our team, I'm varsity by default.

"Maybe we can do it again sometime," he offers, then lowers his voice. "But maybe just us. How does dinner sometime sound?"

"Dinner would be great," I agree calmly, though on the inside my stomach is doing little flips. He deposits me outside the gym and heads to his next class, leaving me in an elated stupor for a moment before I snap myself out of it.

Don't be stupid, I remind myself, feeling the scar at the base of my skull. This is what got you into trouble at your last school.

Well, not exactly. But I still can't go rushing into this.

I push open the doors to the gym and head straight to the locker room, changing into full gear for the first time. The mask makes everything look darker, and the chest piece–it's called a metallic plastron, I'm told–feels a bit bulky for my taste, but I'm still excited. Alek and I will finally get to handle foils and learn a few strikes and parries. Surely he knows them all already, but that's to my advantage because he can teach me better than the coach.

At lunch, I sit with Newkirk, Robert, and Alek, deciding that Matt can sit with us, too. I'll sit with his friends some days, and on others he can sit with mine. When I get my tray and sit down, Alek isn't there yet. I motion Matt over, and he sits reluctantly.

"Why don't you come to another table?" he asks quietly.

My resolve stiffens. I won't be swayed if I want to have a real position in our relationship. "I'm sitting here today, Matt. I'll sit where you want to tomorrow."

A storm cloud passes over his face, but he nods. "Okay."

I don't notice an unfamiliar boy with close-shaved red hair sit down at our table until his green eyes catch mine.

Blisters.

Alek.

I bite my tongue before I can exclaim What happened to your hair? because he looks almost wounded without it. His face mask covered up the cut during fencing class, and that's why I hadn't noticed it until now. It's half an inch long at best, and it makes his emerald colored eyes look twice as big.

He nods to us all wordlessly and opens the seal on his prepackaged lunch.

We sit in a moment of surprised silence before Newkirk speaks. "So how have all your days been?" he asks innocently.

No one answers, and I notice withs surprise that Matt and Alek are having a staring match.

"I almost didn't recognize you without any hair," Matt says, letting go of my hand. "I must say–it may just be an improvement. That mop it was before–"

"Shut up." Alek is filled with cold fury, etched into every hard line of his face.

Matt seems to be enjoying the other boy's anger. "Can't take a compliment?"

"Matt," I warn him, putting an arm on his shoulder to bring him back to reality. "Stop."

"What? I'm trying to give the boy my honest opinion on his new hairdo. Really, Ryan, I'm still not sure if I like it, but it is better than it used to be."

Alek stands up abruptly, his chair sliding back a good yard. "I said, shut up. Or maybe I wasn't very clear."

"Yes, you are quite difficult to understand with that accent. Didn't they like you back at home, or is that why you had to come here? Did mommy and daddy send you away because they didn't want you around anymore?" He's standing now, too, circling the table so he's mere feet away from Alek.

The barely concealed rage that Alek's been holding in explodes like a bomb, and then he's yelling in what sounds like German and his fists are balled. The whole cafeteria is out of their seats in seconds, anticipating a fist-fight. I stay where I am, in total shock.

Just as Alek lunges for Matt, Newkirk pushes him back, suddenly standing between the two. "He's not worth it," he says, voice low and calm. "Listen to me. He is not worth it."

Matt is about to speak, but Newkirk turns a snarl on him. "Not another word out of you, either, you pompous maggot."

"And what right have you to call me a maggot when you're nothing but a git?" he asks, trying to provoke Newkirk.

"Say what you want, Weldon, but you won't get a rise out of me."

"And what a pity that is. I did enjoy our go-arounds last year."

Alek is breathing hard, his green eyes sparkling with ferocity. "This isn't over."

Matt smiles cruelly, and I can't help but wonder how this could be the same boy that walked me to class just this morning. "Then come at me, anytime and anywhere, and know that I will beat the clart out of you every time."

He turns away, ready to stride out of the canteen like he's just won. "Fencing."

"What?" Matt looks back over his shoulder, grinning slyly. "What was that?"

"Fencing. I challenge you to a match, after school. Today. In the gym at four o'clock." Alek meets his gaze levelly, eyes glittering now.

"You just don't know when you've lost, do you? I almost pity you."

Alek scoffs, wringing out his hands like he's still itching for a good punch. "So you're scared, then?"

My ears are ringing. I can't process what's happening

"I never said that. You're on. Just know that you've made a very big mistake." Now he walks out of the canteen, not looking back.

He doesn't hear Alek say, "No, you're the one that's mistaken."

A/N: *Although the drinking age in England is 18, it is legal for those ages 5-17 to have alcohol (at home or at a friend's house) with parental permission. So they technically weren't breaking the law, assuming their parents said it was okay. But that's for y'all to decide.

So. How about that chapter, guys? Review and tell me what you think! :)


	7. A Matter of My Fencing Skills

_**A/N: So, I tried to do my research on fencing, but I really know nothing about it. I'm sorry if there are any terrible, glaring mistakes. Enjoy the chapter! Please Review!**_

Stupid, stupid. _Stupid._

I don't know an English word that could better describe what I've done. Pure stupidity heated my head, pulling me out of my seat.

And though it pains me to think it, Volger was right. I should have never gone into that coffee shop, never joined the fencing team, and never tried to act like I could belong here. It's just made things worse. Out of habit, I reach up to run a hand through my hair, only to find it shorn off and my frustration renewed.

_"Have you no capacity for thought, Aleksander? Do you realize how much danger you've put not just yourself but all of us in?" Volger demanded, face slightly red despite his controlled tone. _

_"Count, I just–"_

_"I do not want to hear it. You can save your excuses. The first thing tomorrow morning, we will be resigning you from that fencing team, and from now on one of us will escort you to and from school. You are not to leave this suite without my express permission. And do not argue with me, young prince; you will find no reward in the attempt."_

_My gaze skittered around the room, searching desperately for something, _anything, _that would change his mind. Cooped up in this hotel room for anything but school–I'd go mad, I was sure. "What harm would it be? No one knows I'm any good at fencing–they think I haven't touched a sabre or a foil in my life–and the coffee shop is poorly trafficked. The likelihood that I would be–"_

_"How thick is your head, exactly? Do you not properly understand your situation?" He'd almost lost his cool by then, and the shock was apparent on every face in the room. I wasn't sure if I had ever seen the man angry in a way that was not cold and cutting like a knife._

_Hoffman, Bauer, and Klopp sat silently on the divan, avoiding my eyes. I wished they'd say something to stop Volger's rant, but deep down I must have known that it was my job to deal with this. "Let me clear it up for you. Your parents have been murdered, with you likely next on the list, and your country is fighting a brutal civil war that has taken the lives of hundreds of your people already. And you are concerned with a petty fencing team and a tea shop. Tell me, how does this seem rational?"_

_Though the question begged no real reply, I opened my mouth anyway. "Because there is nothing else I can do. You said yourself that we are stuck here at least until the country stabilizes some, if not until the end of the war. You told me to make myself at home here, and so I have–and now you're telling me I can't do anything here that I might enjoy? I am dealing with my grief by distraction, so I beg of you to simply _let me_." Against my will, tears burned at the back of my eyes, and to keep them back I let my nails bite into my palms._

_I watched the anger drain from Volger's face, the red splotches on his cheeks replaced by his usual indifference. But if I wasn't mistaken, I also saw weariness there. "Young prince, you must know that it is not out of spite that I speak to you so. Our situation is too precarious to take such risks, especially that you may be recognized and your location known."_

_Lightning flickered outside, and the London rain I'd almost become accustomed to began to patter on the window. "Then I won't be recognized–I'll change my appearance."_

_The muscles in the count's jaw worked as he thought over my statement. "That is hardly as simple as it seems, Aleksandar. You have already established an appearance here, at that school, so anything such as a hair or eye color change will not go unquestioned." He did not seem happy to be dashing my hopes, which was new to me._

_I splayed my hands, brandishing my calloused palms as I shrugged. "Don't change the color, then. I'll–" I swallow, barely aware of what I'm saying, just why I'm saying it. "I'll cut off my hair."_

_From across the room, I could see the three men seated on the divan raise their eyebrows in unison. Understandably, seeing as the defining feature of Prince Aleksandar had always been his hair. Which was exactly why I needed to get rid of it. If I was to become someone else here–Ryan Thompson, according to the school–Aleksandar of Hohenberg needed to disappear._

_"I can see to that," the count said calmly, showing no hint of surprise. "Nicely done, Aleksandar. You've learned the art of compromise."_

Sighing, I drop my hand onto my lap. My fingers itch to explore the foreign feel of my hair now, almost ten centimeters shorter than before and considerably lighter. My anger dissipates, leaving me numb again.

After my confrontation with Matt, I took my lunch outside to finish. I'm sitting against the brick wall of one of the buildings–I don't even know which one it is–with the plastic container on the ground beside me. It's terribly cold out here, and as I eat my ham and crackers I watch the tips of my fingers turn pink and the breath come out of my nose in puffs of condensation. The sky hangs heavy with clouds, threatening to drop its load on my lunch. I just hope the rain doesn't start before I finish.

I'm nibbling on my last cracker when someone finds me.

"And what are you doing sitting out here?" asks a female voice I don't recognize.

I look up to see a girl with dark amber skin, auburn hair pulled into a loose braid, and eyes that look like they're used to smiling. She's pretty, startlingly so, but I can't bring myself to think about that, no after what's just happened.

She wears a skirt that doesn't quite look like the others I've seen, and I'm reminded of the swirling fabrics that gypsies wore on my visit to Turkey. Hers, though, is of a dress-code approved navy and lacks any bells, and she wears it with a Leviathan blazer.

"Eating lunch," I say drily, wishing she would go away. "Obviously."

"A very strange place to do so," she muses, a slight roll on her "r"s marking her as foreign, "but I suppose you think lunchrooms are too mainstream. I'm always looking for someplace less crowded, anyway, so I'll just stay here."

With that, she sits down next to me unceremoniously, her ankle-length skirt fanning off to one side as she does so. I notice with interest that, despite how cold it is, she wears sandals. They're the kind that cling her feet with many different leather ties, beads strung on them at odd intervals.

I'm about to protest, but the words die in my mouth. I don't think she was just in the lunchroom to see my outburst, and she seems nice enough. "I'm Ryan," I say instead.

"That doesn't sound very Austrian," she tells me bluntly.

"I–what?" I splutter, a cold knot arresting the food in my stomach. My tongue feels dry in my mouth. How could she have–

"I'm going to university to be a language and communications major next year. I catch accents better than most," she clarifies. "I'm Lilit, by the way. Lilit Zavenian."

I let out a shaky breath, flexing my fingers to get the fear out of them. "Hello. If you don't mind my asking, where are _you_ from, then? I have no talent with accents as you do."

"Istanbul, Turkey. My father is the ambassador to Britain, and I came along to live with him. London is so much more entertaining, don't you think?" Lilit looks at me around the sandwich she's pulled out of her backpack. It looks homemade, layered in clear plastic wrap. When I break her gaze, I can't help but look down at what was my lunch with a sense of envy. Someone made that sandwich and wrapped it up, probably this morning. My meal came from a factory that turns out hundreds a day.

"Yes," I agree, and change the subject with a sly grin. "What kind of meat is on your sandwich?"

"Not turkey, if that is what you were hinting at. Nice try, though; I'm a vegetarian. So it's spinach and cheese with mustard, if you must know."

Blinking, I nod. Lilit grins at me and takes a large bite out of a corner of her sandwich, chewing hurriedly. In the near-silence, I notice that the edges of her fingernails are coated in clay dust, and there are smudges on her skirt and blazer. "So you're an artist, then?"

She swallows quickly, nodding. "A sculptor, to be exact. I'm always late to lunch because I have open studio right ahead of it. Most days I end up eating at my work bench, but today I actually finished a little early."

I glance down at my watch, confused. "But lunch lasts half an hour, and we've barely two minutes left."

"Exactly."

I open my mouth to reply, but suddenly the bell rings. Lilit frowns. "It seems your estimate was a bit off." She stands, brushing dirt and clay dust from her skirt after rewrapping what is left of her sandwich. "Ah, well. I didn't think I was _that_ early, anyway."

Standing as well, I find the nearest trash bin and toss my cardboard and plastic containers into it. "It was nice talking to you, Lilit," I tell her, because it would seem silly to say something like "Goodbye" or "I'll see you around".

"You, too," she replies, gripping the door handle of the building we were just sitting against. "And–Ryan–I know it's hard being new. Just–just let the dust settle before you expect things to feel normal. Time is a gift to the weary."

I only have time to wonder if she dabbles in poetry before she's ducked inside the building and out of my sight.

_Stupid._

I've almost forgotten the word–or, rather, it's meaning–by the time the last bell of the day rings at 3:35. It wasn't easy, because I've been catching sideways glances and whispers since lunch, but somehow I managed.

And now I have to face up to my stupidity in all its glory.

Still, I take my time walking to the fencing gym. It's not that I'm afraid of losing–I am certain that I can best Matt at fencing–but I can't let myself win. Doing so would expose my skill, and go against Volger's explicit command. Now, I must lose and suffer the consequences.

Why couldn't I have just kept my mouth shut? Back in the palace, I was good enough at it. I'd always faced criticism for my blood–a strange thing, considering who Prince William married just recently. But I suppose Austria is a little more old-fashioned than Great Britain.

I grip the cold handle of the door to the gym and take a deep breath before I pull it open. When I do, the first thing I notice is the noise; usually, there is only the subdued conversation of those practicing their fencing bouncing off the walls. Now, most of the student body has packed inside and they chatter excitedly. My name–or rather, the name "Ryan Thompson"–floats around the gym and hangs in the air. My stomach sinks even farther.

Well, I didn't really expect this to be a private ordeal, did I?

I try to sneak past the gazes of the spectators to the changing rooms, but it's inevitable that someone sees me. A hush falls over the gym, but the level of anticipation only grows.

The feel of so many eyes on my back is oppressive, no matter how I try to ignore it. I escape into the locker room, and hurry over to my locker so I can change into gear, glad that the JV and varsity locker rooms are separate. I have to hurry, because I only have five minutes before our match begins, and I don't want to be late.

Somehow, though, I find myself sitting on the bench halfway through changing my shirt, rubbing my forehead and staring at the floor. The off-white concrete is covered in scuff marks and hasn't been swept yet today, so everything is dusted with a thin layer of dirt. My skin, a few shades darker than the floor, prickles with goosebumps all the way up my arms and over my chest. I wring out my hands and reach slowly for a t-shirt to wear under my jacket and plastron. As my fingers close around the collar, I hear the door open with a creak.

"Ryan? Alek, whatever," Newkirk says, coming around the corner. "So many people are out there talking about you that I can't keep the two names straight. Sorry."

I bite my lip, turning the shirt right-side out before pulling it over my head. It still smells faintly of sweat from practice this morning, but I'm beyond caring. "Hello. Come to wish me luck?"

"Something like that," he replies, picking up my jacket and handing it to me. "I came to give you some advice."

"Advice?" I blink.

Newkirk looks around the room. "Yes. I was on the team last year, so I know Weldon's weaknesses."

I slip my arms into the sleeves of the jacket and zip it up. "Why don't you still fence?" I ask, not able to stop myself. It isn't the first time today.

"I got kicked off in the middle of last year for fighting, among other things. And now... my heart isn't in it anymore." He pauses, as if contemplating whether to say something more. "He keeps his guard low," Newkirk continues. "He always told me he could strike quicker that way, and that it helped him get around his opponent's guard, but I never believed that. He's light on his toes and he strikes quickly, usually trying to push back at least to the warning line so his opponent gets desperate. Got it?"

"Yes," I say, though I wasn't really paying attention.

"And, Alek, he has a way of getting under people's skin, making them angry too easily. He has a special talent for it, and I've fallen prey to his tricks too many times to let you suffer from it, too. You _have _to keep your head around him, because otherwise you end up doing stupid things."

"Yes, I'd figured that part out. How do you think I got here?" I splay my hands.

He shrugs. "Fair enough. You can still back out of this, you know. I don't know how good you really are at this, but..."

Our gazes meet, and I sigh. "This isn't a matter of my fencing skills, Newkirk."

He nods. "I see. Good luck, then. It's four o'clock." The door squeaks again as he exits, leaving me alone to tie my shoes and pick up my mask.

When I walk out into the gym, Matt is waiting for me on the center piste. I've left my mask off so that everyone can see my face; determined, prepared. Calm. The crowd parts around me, and I have a clear path to my starting position. I ignore the gazes of my audience again, focusing my attention on Matt to gauge everything that could affect our match. His shoulders are tight, but his eyes are unwavering from mine.

Just as I finish securing my mask, he tosses me a foil. I barely grasp the hilt, but let it swing around my finger before I catch it firmly to make the movement look intentional. I test the weight of the foil, getting used to the feel of it. He nods, and we salute each other.

I can't see his lips moving through the metallic mesh of his mask, but his voice is clear. "Shall we make this a regular bout, or cut the number of hits to shorten your humiliation?"

"First to five," I bark, ready to get this over with. I already know what the outcome will be.

The shadow of a grin shows through his mask. "Five it is. En guard..."

We're playing dry–not hooked up to an electric scoring system–so points will be awarded through our honesty and the eyes of the audience. I only hope they call fairly.

The student playing as referee calls our start, and immediately Matt begins bouncing back and forth on his feet. I would, too–it's proper form–but I must make myself look inept at the sport. I'll make it close, to be sure, but I will lose nonetheless. So instead I shift my weight slowly, as if I am uncertain.

Matt wastes no time with a lunge, and I make a quick parry and step back. If he likes to drive his opponent back, I'll let him. He moves in closer, his stance wide and he shifts forward. The tip of his foil bobs with each step. Mistiming a lunge, Matt leaps toward me and leaves himself wide open for a thrust. I almost flick my foil in for an easy point, but hold back.

My indecision gives him time to touch my plastron. The crowd bursts out in cheers, making sure the referee caught the movement. I swear for effect as the referee calls a stop and awards Matt a point. Under his mask, I can see him smiling.

We reset our positions, and as soon as we are given the cue to begin, Matt lunges. He makes the same mistake as before, and I almost make it look like an accident when I catch him squarely on the chest with the tip of my foil. The audience hesitates more in calling my point, but they are at least honest.

As we move to the starting lines again, I hear the door to the gym open and see Deryn slipping through. There isn't time to comprehend the look on her face before I hear "Allez"–the command to begin.

Our foils flash, and after almost thirty seconds, Matt scores. I lift my mask long enough to wipe the sweat collected off my forehead. As much as I hate to admit it, he is good.

I've fallen into the rhythm of the sport, years of training in the correct form forcing me out of my false imperfections. We are almost an even match, and we trade off points until the score is four to four.

The noise has dampened, all our spectators in quiet anticipation of the last point. My attention is focused solely on Matt, zeroing in on anything that could give me the advantage. As he wears out, I've noticed that his guard is indeed low. He can make quicker thrusts from there, but that means that I can easily make a riposte from my parries and strike his chest easily. He grips the foil a little too tightly now. All I have to do is–

_Lose. Let him make the touch, _I command myself firmly. This has gone too far already.

"May the best fencer win," Matt says, low enough that only I can hear it. And then, barely audible, "I only hope you aren't a sore loser."

A spark of anger ignites in my chest, spreading into my sword-arm until I don't feel the tiredness in my muscles any more. It burns in my head, the smoke smothering logic. His head is so big it'll hurt when I shove it up his–

I hear "Allez" and my body takes over.

Quick as lightning, we're engaged in a flurry of thrusts, parries, and ripostes. I push him back with ease, finally fencing to the fullest of my capabilities. I can tell now that he wasn't putting forth a complete effort, either, because he uses increasingly difficult moves.

As time crawls along, we tire more and more. Matt's getting desperate now, his parries sloppy. In a final attempt to avoid my attacks, Matt performs an incortata, flinging his left hand back to dodge my thrust. I almost fall onto the tip of his foil–the ultimate purpose of the move–but push his blade aside with my own, regaining my balance. Quickly, I spin my foil around his and land a solid blow near his armpit.

The crowd erupts into cheers, hesitant at first but then growing in volume. The referee pats me on the back, calling out my name as the winner. Out of the corner of my eye, Matt throws his mask on the floor, and his hair is pasted to his forehead with sweat. He shouts something, and although I don't hear him over the din, the look on his face is terrifying. It takes a moment for the past few seconds of event to sink in, and as the mob of people descends to congratulate me, bewilderment and disbelief replace the cloud of angry smoke.

Stupid.


	8. Every Girl Wants to be a Princess

_**A/N: I bet you thought I was dead. Well, I'm not. And even if I were, I would have resurrected myself so I could post this chapter. Because I'm dedicated like that (or something). So, even though you'll find this out while you're reading, this chapter is mostly background on Deryn, which I quite enjoy. And it reminds you of the upcoming fencing tournament. Yay! Please review!**_

After the fencing match, a number of things happened very quickly.

The first was how Alek's schedule changed the moment the fencing master heard he'd beaten the head of the team. He's been in the varsity class since, after lunch, so I am partnered with an American girl named Melissa now.

The change completely reworked his schedule, but I only know that because we have a lot of the same classes now. Algebra II, advanced biology, German. We haven't talked to each other a lot since, but he still comes in to Rigby's most evenings, right through the dinner hours. He mostly talks with Newkirk and Fitzroy, and is nothing more than cordial to me. I don't know how to feel about his cold, detached gaze. A squick of sadness would be acceptable, because we were friends, but it goes deeper than that, like a blow to the chest every time he looks right through me.

Secondly, though it wasn't directly related to the bout, my schoolwork and work schedule seemed to double. My life consists of school, work, homework, and not much else. Not to mention that with our first fencing tournament of the season this weekend, Mr. Wrathbone called mandatory weekend practices and optional after school ones. Everything aches.

And Matt tried to apologize, but I refused to talk to him for two days.

"_Deryn, please just listen to me. You don't have to say anything back."_

_At the end of the second day, he caught my shoulder as I rushed from school to get to work on time. It's about a mile walk from the school to the coffee shop, and then just as far home, but I've preferred walking to driving since last year. We couldn't have afforded a car for me anyway._

_I didn't push Matt's hand away, just turned around so I could look him in they eye. I said nothing._

"_All of this was my fault. I shouldn't have insulted that kid. But nothing bad came from it, see? It was fate, because now he's on varsity and competes as second on the team. He's good, you know. We never would have found him out otherwise!"_

_I let out my breath in a hiss and started walking. Matt followed. "So you're not really apologizing. Just trying to convince me you did nothing wrong."_

_The barest hint of relief flashed across his face that I was talking to him again. In truth, I just wanted to speed this up so I could get to work. "That's not what I'm saying at all! I know what I said was wrong, and I've already apologized to Ryan. No hard feelings, he told me. You can ask him if you don't believe me."_

_Not sure how to respond, I just shrugged and shook my head. "I'm still not sure if I can forgive you."_

_His step faltered on the pavement, dark gray converse making a scuffing noise to fill the silence. "What more do I have to do, Deryn? Tell me what I can do to fix this–fix _us."

"_You really want to know?" I demanded, stopped a few feet ahead of him. "It was the way you looked when you said it–like you _wanted_to hurt him, and for no reason! And the whole time, when I was there, trying to get you to stop, you didn't listen to me. At all. I wasn't even there to you."_

_He blinked. "Oh. I'm sorry," Matt said, and I could hear the sincerity in his voice. "I didn't realize. That–I can fix that. Let me take you out to dinner after the tournament on Saturday, and I'll prove it to you."_

"_Matt, I–fine. Yes,__" __I agreed, and his eyes lit up immediately. "But you're walking a thin line," I added, unnecessarily. He nodded gravely._

"_See you later, Deryn."_

I haven't been completely honest. Or, I suppose, entirely forthcoming. I can't hide that something happened to me. But I've been trying to avoid explaining exactly _what_ happened. It's too difficult to think of more often than not.

It happened almost a year ago. My last school–the Glasgow public school, nothing special–was wrapping up for the year, and everyone was anxious for summer vacation. Myself included.

My boyfriend at the time, two years older and named Andrew, took me to a party out in the country a few weeks before school finished. By the time we left the old barn filled with wasted teenagers, it was around three in the morning and he was absolutely stoned. I half-carried him out because he could barely put one foot in front of the other.

The night was pitch black, clouds covering any stars, so the only light I could see by had leaked out the windows. The dry grass crackled under my feet. My mind was clear–I wasn't a fan of liquor, and Andrew'd had enough for the both of us. Still, he refused to surrender his keys. I was sure that, even though I didn't have my driver's license, it was safer that I drive. He disagreed. After a ten minute argument, I surrendered and climbed into the passenger seat.

For a time, he seemed fine. Though I clenched the armrests and my pulse hammered through my body, we stayed on the road until we were halfway back to the city. After that...

I've told all the counselors, the therapists, and the doctors that I don't remember much. Mostly, that's to get them to leave me alone. I don't want to talk about it, have to say any of it out loud. But I remember all of it. Every moment is lodged into my head as tight as the metal plate that replaces part of my skull.

The first sign was when he started speeding up. The speed limit hadn't changed, but the land on my left side blurred. His knuckles turned white on the steering wheel, and the engine roared with the added speed.

Maybe it wasn't really that loud. Maybe that was my fear, growing with each second. The brain has a funny way of warning of danger.

I'd told him to slow down, to stop, to please just _let met drive, _but it was like I wasn't even there. Seconds ran into minutes, and the thunder in my ears boomed louder than ever. It may have started raining by then. That is the one thing I can't recall with clarity.

Finally, I'd had enough. If he wasn't hearing me, I would make him. Grabbing his arm, I yelled for him to _slow down_. Andrew had turned bloodshot eyes on me, shoved my hand off his arm, and followed it with a vicious slap. My cheek burned, and it took me too long to realize we'd drifted far to the right, into the opposing lane and past. I screamed and grabbed hold of the wheel, trying to bring us back before a car came.

By then, it had started to rain. I don't remember when it started, but in that moment the drops were thick on the windshield and the headlights swam.

He jerked the wheel from my hand, and with sickening speed the car lost traction and then we were skidding along the road. I must have screamed, but by then the pressure in my ears was so loud that all sound disappeared.

A flash of lightning illuminated our surroundings like bright daylight, and I saw the telephone pole through Andrew's window. I thought, for the slightest of seconds, that maybe we would miss it, that we weren't hurtling straight for it, but the impact erased all doubt.

The sound of crunching metal must have been loud. It may have even drowned out the peal of thunder. But before I had time to register the crash, pain exploded at the back of my head and I was gone.

My memory is fuzzy from there. I was half-conscious for the arrival of the ambulance, and I was in and out between surgeries. I've seen pictures of what was left of the car, and to this day I cannot understand how I survived.

It wrapped around the pole on the driver's side, crushing Andrew on impact. I'm told he died instantly.

Seven broken bones and four reconstructive surgeries later, I was finally fully awake again. To replace the shattered part of my skull, the surgeons had had to shave off all my hair. The look on my mother's face as she explained what happened is what made me tell her I didn't remember it. She looked like the broken one, not me. I couldn't bear to put her through any more than she'd already been through.

I was in physical therapy most of the summer, and I didn't attend regular school for all of first semester this year. My hair grows fast, but it's still only shoulder-length and I'm barely able to pull it into a low ponytail. Even then, bits are constantly falling out because it doesn't reach all the way to the back of my head. I would pull it up higher, but then my scar would be plainly visible. I don't want to have to explain the three-inch, angry line that rests just above my hairline. I would have to tell them how I was hit in the back of the head by whatever was in the backseat of that car, moving almost ninety miles an hour.

The rest of my scars are easier to explain away. I can say a dog bit my arm, or that my leg got caught on barbed wire. Then they stop asking questions.

Nowadays, I don't much like cars. When my leg isn't hurting–it aches some days, right around my knee–and my destination isn't too far away, I walk when I could get a ride.

Farther down on my list than even cars are the moments when I am being completely ignored and it matters that I be listened to. Moments like the in the canteen, when Matt and Alek almost came to blows. Right then, all I could think of was Andrew, and I froze. Suddenly, I was back in that car and infuriatingly helpless, speeding toward something terrible.

That's why it bothered me so much. Maybe I am overreacting, and Matt is nothing like Andrew, but I can't get rid of the lingering fear that rakes its claws across my chest and burns in my skull. I'll give him another chance because I need to let go.

I blow some hair out of my face and bend over my work again. We've reached the slow part of the evening–not even Alek has come in–so I took it upon myself to begin rewriting the menu on the massive chalkboard. It's big enough that it sprawls across two tables and still hangs off the edges, which will make it more of a bugger to get back on the wall than it was to get off, but I'll be happy so long as it doesn't look so hideous. I've already given it a thorough cleaning, so the black surface shines and my chalk slides along it smoothly.

Newkirk has been watching over my shoulder for a few minutes, but I've chosen to ignore him until now because he hasn't said anything. "So are you going into art as a profession?"

"No," I sigh, glancing at my notes to see how much a chai tea latte costs. "It's more of a hobby."

"Deryn," Newkirk says, "'hobby' is another word for something people like to do, but they are mediocre at at best. So _this–_" he points from me to the chalkboard "–is not a hobby."

I look up at him, and he shrugs. "I'm going to be a pilot," I tell him. "There isn't much room for whatever _this_ is in flight school. So I call it a hobby."

"A pilot?" he asks. "That's cool, and I guess it makes sense. Blisters, I wish I was so sure what I was going to do with my life. Wasn't there a time when you wanted to be something else?"

Picking chalk dust out from beneath my fingernails, I take my time in answering. "I guess so. I mean–I've always loved the idea of being in the air, but I suppose I once entertained the idea of being an artist as famous as Da Vinci or Van Gogh. I was eight at the time, and most girls were still dreaming of having a herd of unicorns and being a ballerina."

Newkirk gives a fake gasp. "You mean–you never wanted to be a fairy princess?"

I laugh. "Don't be ridiculous. Every girl wants to be a princess. There just aren't enough princes to go around, so we have to settle for something else. And being a pilot—that's not really settling much."

The hinge on the gate that separates the counter from the rest of the shop squeaks as Newkirk passes through. I watch him for a moment. "So, do you have any clue what you want to do when you get out of school?"

He pauses. "No. I could manage some sports team, maybe. I'm not too bad at managing for the fencing team. And it's kind of fun some days," he says, but I can tell he doesn't really mean it. "Are you ready for the meet tomorrow, by the way?"

I swallow hard. The fencing tournament. Right. "Yeah. And I think this sword fighting business is good for me," I say, and shrug. "If I get stuck in a tower someday with a spell cast on me by an evil witch, I won't need a prince to come save me."

_**A/N: Do you see what I did there? I felt pretty cool for doing that. But, you know. Hey! Don't forget to review! (It's not like I love reviews more than chocolate or anything.)**_


	9. Moving at the Pace of a Comatose Snail

_**A/N: Oh. My. Barking. Spiders. Did Middy Miles **_**actually****_ post a new chapter of Like Tea and Coffee? That's right, folks. I'm back. And, trust me, I've been waiting as long for me to finish this as you guys. On the upside, school is about to start and the rest of this fic is plotted out (it'll probably finish at around 20 chapters, maybe less), so the updates should be coming more frequently from now on. Yes, I write more when there is schoolwork I should be doing instead :)_**

**_Enjoy, everyone! I hope it was well worth the wait!_**

The circumstances under which I end up on the bus to our fencing meet are a bit more complicated than I would have liked. But I find it best not to dwell on that, especially considering that our bus assignments worked delightfully to my favor.

Deryn and I are on the same bus, and Matt isn't.

So I find myself sitting next to Deryn, who seems to be asleep against the window, across the aisle from Fitzroy and Newkirk. Even before she fell asleep she was quiet, but then again everyone is. The bus left entirely too early this morning—six fifteen, which meant my alarm went off much earlier than that—and a drowsy silence pushes down on us.

Newkirk lets out a giant yawn, and though he tries to say something through it I can't understand him. "Could you repeat that?" I ask tiredly.

He clears his throat. "I've been waiting for this all year."

Fitzroy lets out a sharp laugh and elbows his friend. "Of course you have, because you're in looove," he jibes, the least lucid of us. Rehearsal for the school musical went abnormally late last night, he told us as he stumbled up to the bus earlier this morning. Robert doesn't talk about it much, but he has a rather large part and is required to be at rehearsals three nights a week.

His statement wakes me up a little. "What?" I demand, a bit too loud for the hush of the bus. This wakes Deryn up, and she rubs her eyes tiredly.

"Are we at the stadium?"

I grin. "No, but Newkirk's in love."

She brightens immediately at the statement, shifting in the seat so she's facing the boy of interest. "Sounds intriguing. Please, continue."

Newkirk shoves at Robert half-heartedly for bringing the subject up. "It's nothing."

"Not nothing," the other boy counters, slightly more alert. "Definitely not nothing. If you don't tell them, I will."

"I talk to a girl at fencing meets, alright?" Newkirk groans, running a hand through his hair.

"_Talk_ to her?" demands Fitzroy. "You're _always_ texting her, and you bring her coffee and practically massage her shoulders before every match. We all know she's the reason you stayed with the team after you quit." He falters over the last few words, obviously not sure how to refer to the sequence of events that led to the boy's discontinuation of fencing.

"That sounds adorable, Newkirk," Deryn adds, stretching out her arms as much as she can in the tight bus seat. "What's her name?

I watch the question play across Newkirk's face as he decides whether to say. He never has to make the choice, though, because Fitzroy supplies the answer for him. "Rachel."

"Robert Fitzroy, keep your sodding mouth shut," Newkirk groans. "If you had a life—or a girlfriend—of your own, would you still be so irritating?"

His tone holds no menace, and yet Fitzroy jerks back like he's been burned. "Forget I said anything, then," he grumbles, and turns to look out the window.

"I didn't mean that," apologizes the other boy. "Sorry. We're all a bit punchy without sleep, aye?"

Fitzroy shrugs and nods. "Don't worry about it." Newkirk's phone makes a strangled buzzing noise, and he pulls it out of his jacket pocket. Robert looks over his shoulder and grins. "See? Always texting her."

"Sod off," Newkirk says absently, tapping at his keyboard.

I glance at the watch on my wrist; we've been on the road for only twenty minutes now, and the coach's estimated time of arrival at the arena says we have almost another hour.

Deryn, sitting next to me, yawns. "Blisters, this is awful. I'm normally a morning person, but I was up until two Skyping my brother. I _literally_ felt like a zombie when I had to get up; I even let Ma drive me to school instead of walking."

Biting my lip, I think of my car ride. I felt bad lying to the wildcount, but he wouldn't have let me come otherwise. That I'm certain of. And to be honest, I'm afraid of what he'll do when he finds out—the world may not end if I'm on the varsity team, but the count will act like it. I've broken our deal, and I'll suffer the consequences.

But not today.

"Really?" I ask after a moment, genuinely surprised. Deryn doesn't like cars, that much I can tell. She's fine with buses, it would seem, but not cars, though she's never told me why.

"Yeah. And you don't look so bushy-tailed yourself," she accuses, raising an eyebrow. "Up late as well?"

"No," I lie. It wouldn't do for her to know that I was up well past midnight reading reports on the war in my country, and only slept fitfully after that. While the government still holds Vienna, rebels have taken many of the other major cities. My parents' deaths are just two of thousands. I swallow hard.

Deryn eyes me strangely, as if she can sense I'm not telling the truth. Then she shakes her head and changes the subject. "So are you as worried about the biology project as I am? Barlow says it's twenty percent of the quarter's grade, and I know she'll grade hard."

I nod. "I haven't the faintest idea what she's talking about most days. Biology confuses me _so_ much," I admit, honest this time.

"If you want help, I'd be glad to give it," Deryn offers. "I need a partner, anyway."

My stomach tightens. "I'd like that. I _really_ don't want to fail. And If you ever need help with auto mechanics, I'm your guy," I add, feeling as though I should return her favor.

She nods and repositions herself in the seat so she's angled toward me. "So you're a clanker, huh?"

"A what?" I blink, confused by a word I don't recognize.

"Oh—sorry. It's what we called all the kids who were into mechanics at my old school. I forget we're from different places." Her shoulders lift in a shrug just as the bus goes over a bump, jostling us all. A few people mutter tiredly, but for the most part no one seems to mind. I take a moment to adjust my legs, cramped in the small space between my seat and the one in front. "Come to think of it," Deryn says, dark blond eyebrows lowering, "I don't know where you're from."

Opening and closing my mouth several times, I find that I can't form words. It should be easy—my file says I moved here from Benešov, a town southeast of Prague in the Czech Republic. But I don't want to lie, not to Deryn, not anymore. If I could just _tell_ someone about everything that's running through my head at a thousand kilometers an hour and pushing down on my shoulders with the weight of a mountain, then maybe it wouldn't all seem so awful. "I—"

No. Even if I trust her, even if saying I spent most of my winters in Vienna will mean nothing, I can't. It could still go wrong. Any chance at all it too much of a chance. "I'm from the Czech Republic, near Prague," I say.

"Exotic," jokes Deryn, not seeming to have noticed my hesitation. "I like it. I'm from Glasgow, by the way. I don't know if I ever told you."

I shake my head. "No, you hadn't. That's north of here, isn't it? In Scotland?"

"It is. Way north. The winters there are awfully cold. And the _snow_! You've never seen the like. Ma and I would have to dig ourselves out some mornings, and I would be _so _late for school..."

We fall into easy conversation, voices low to match the quiet of the school bus. It feels good to be able to talk to someone, even if I can't say anything that really matters. I can almost feel normal when I talk to her.

An hour that feels like minutes later, the bus creaks to a halt in the circle drive of a low brick building, the words "University of Essex at Colchester" spelled out proudly in red and purple on the side. The coach looks from a paper in his hand to the driver, then leans over to give her a few directions, pointing to a massive building and corresponding parking lot. We rattle into motion again, waking up most of the students.

More and more heads pop up from between the seats, headphones are pulled from ears, and arms appear in stretches as the bus slowly comes to life. A sense of anticipation creeps over us all, and I find myself picking at my fingernails and chewing on my lip. Deryn wrings out her hands and gives me a reassuring nod; I wonder if my worry is clear on my face.

It's not the idea of competition that scares me, really. I'm certain I could do fairly well, maybe even place in the top two. But that's Aleksandar Hohenberg—I need to decide how good at fencing Ryan Thompson is. Before, it wouldn't have been an issue because I wasn't on varsity, but now I have to do well enough that it won't hurt my team, though not so much that it would draw attention from places that would recognize me. It's probably stupid that I'm even here—it was never a secret that I could fence, in my old life—so I have to be careful.

I shake my head and pop my knuckles, trying to rid myself of the anxiety. My breath leaves a spot of moisture on the fake leather of the seat in front of me, and I watch it fade away slowly.

"Ow! Are we here?" Robert yelps suddenly, and I look over to see him rubbing his shoulder and Newkirk with a wide grin on his face.

"Yes, we're here," he replies smugly.

Fitzroy blows a bit of hair off his forehead. "That's my fencing arm, thank you very much. I _need_ that for things."

With a grin, Newkirk hefts a faded green duffel bag over his shoulder and stands, just as the bus jerks to a stop. He stumbles forward a bit, but between the closeness of the seat in front and his sense of balance, he manages to stay upright.

He's earned a sideways glance from Robert. "We're at the back of the bus, Newkirk. No need to be in such a hurry."

Newkirk scowls. "I'm not in a hurry," he argues, but soon realizes that he's the only person standing. He sinks back into his seat slowly. "Maybe just a squick. And it's not my fault you're all moving at the pace of a comatose snail."

I shake my head, reaching down to pull my own bag off the floor. It's identical to those of everyone on the team, with "Leviathan" in block letters on the sides. My gear in the bag is, again, exactly like the rest of my team's. Maybe blending in will help me stay unnoticed.

Deryn's duffel is already hung by its strap over her shoulder, and she has one hand on the back of the seat ahead of us. She looks almost as anxious as Newkirk, though I assume her nerves are purely from excitement about competing.

The students begins filing off the bus, and conversations buzz around, dropping off as more exit. Finally we've made our way to the door, and I step out between Fitzroy and Deryn. My tennis shoes make a wet crunching noise against the pavement, and a breeze nudges its way through my blazer. I have to skirt around puddles from this morning's rain on my way to the building.

"How many teams are here?" I ask, noting the fleet of buses in the parking lot.

"Five, I think," Newkirk replies. "Some schools have massive JV teams, though. And it's co-ed, so that doubles the people."

I grimace. "Do we all fence at the same time?"

"No. Girls in the morning, guys after lunch. They usually post a bracket in the gym so you know when and where your matches are." He's about to say something else, but the coach's voice booms over us.

"Drop your bags off in the locker rooms and then meet in the gym, at our usual spot on the bleachers," he orders, and the group splits apart into our respective locker rooms. Most of us double up our bags because there aren't nearly enough lockers for as many boys that are here. I end up sharing with a freshman on JV, who walks in a few minutes after the rest of us because it's the underclassmen's job to carry the foils and water jugs. His name is Scott, but that's all I know about him.

I follow Fitzroy and Newkirk—who still has his duffel, because he's the team manager and carries the Tylenol, athletic wrap, and other such things—down the hall and through a door on our right, which opens up into a gym that looks even more massive on the inside than out. It's not quite a stadium, but it comes close.

The ceiling here is much higher than the one in Leviathan's fencing gym, which allows rows of bleachers to be stacked along the walls. A section is marked off for teams, and I can see a few of my teammates gathered in the top few rows. I start toward the stairs, but Newkirk catches my arm.

"Let's look at the bracket, and see where Deryn fences first."

His voice seems quiet in the low roar of the gym, but I quickly adjust to the noise to tune most of it out. We maneuver around the dozen pistes that are laid out on the floor and to the far side of the gym, where a giant white board with two brackets—one JV and one Varsity—on it stands out boldly against the red-and-purple painted wall. The first round of matches all have names written on the lines, conveniently color-coded for each of the five schools here.

After a few minutes, Fitzroy finds her name. "Ah! Right here. Deryn's up against someone named 'Helen' at piste five. And... varsity girls matches start at ten, looks that mean's we've got two hours to kill while JV fences. We don't have a girls JV team, do we?"

Newkirk shakes his head. "We barely have varsity. The only reason we have to show up so early is because check-in is at seven forty-five."

"So we've got nothing to do for two hours." Robert sighs, glancing down at his watch.

The corners of Newkirk's mouth tug into a smile. "Correction: you don't. _I _do." He ducks past Fitzroy and me, and raises a hand above his head, calling, "Rachel!"

A head pops up from looking at a phone screen, and her green eyes light on Newkirk. "Eugene! It's been so long! How are you?" Her blond pony sways as she walks toward him.

Fitzroy sighs. "That's our cue to leave," he whispers, tugging at my sleeve.

"Why does _she_ get to call him Eugene?" I wonder aloud.

"Because he's so taken with her he's never told her otherwise." He shrugs. Over my shoulder, I see the pair walking toward the concession stand that boasts coffee for a pound. "Come on, let's go find Deryn."

She jumps lightly on her toes, shifting the weight between her feet nervously. In a few minutes, they'll hook her up to the electronic scoring system, but for the moment she's free to wander around the area by the piste at will. Even now, with her bleached-white gear on, identical to all the other fencers about to compete, she looks distinctly like herself.

I check my watch. Nine fifty-five. For the last two hours, we've mostly sat around and worked on homework, so I'm glad to finally have some action, but Deryn looks like she'd much rather finish the trig assignment. I can feel her nervous energy from here.

"You'll be fine," I tell her, laying a hand on her shoulder.

"Yeah, I know." She jumps a few more times, and rolls her head around. "I don't know why this is freaking me out so much—I did tons of sports at my old school."

I smirk. "Why am I not surprised?"

She scowls and punches me in the shoulder. "Ouch! See what I mean?" I rub my arm and give her a pouty face. As I'd hoped, she surrenders to a reluctant grin.

"So what about you? Much of a sports kid?" Deryn glances at the digital clock on the other side of the piste and reaches back to try and adjust her plastron, which isn't fastened quite right.

"Here, let me," I say, stepping around her and re-buttoning the straps that go around her middle and her neck. The school-supplied plastrons have one sleeve and don't go all the way around the body, so they have a habit of getting tangled up in the back. "And I was home-schooled, so I haven't done many sports."

"Other than fencing." She quirks a half smile again. "You've done quite a bit of that."

"Yes, other than fencing." I turn her around to face me again, and I can see that her face is a little paler than usual. "Do you want me to get you some water? Or—rub your shoulders or something?"

She's about to reply when she's called over to be attached to the electronic scoring system. "Maybe next time," she says over her shoulder. "And, Alek—thank you."

"No problem. Good luck, Deryn."

With a nod to me, she accepts a foil from coach Wrathbone and steps up to the edge of the piste. Her opponent is shorter than her by a substantial amount, and the tanned skin of her face stands out starkly against the white of her gear. Angled eyes glance nervously at Deryn, and she blows a stray strand of black hair out of her face. She looks fifteen at best, probably only a freshman.

A voice booms through the speakers on the ceiling, sounding too cheery and rather American. "Welcome everyone, to the two-thousand thirteen University of Essex at Colchester qualifying fencing tournament. I'm Edward Malone, and you'd all better get used to my voice because I will be covering all qualifying meets on the radio and in London's number one newspaper, _The Times_."

Bile rises in my throat. God's wounds, _newspaper_ coverage? I'll have to keep an even lower profile now than I thought, and make sure that count Volger _never_ learns of this. I'd be off the team for sure.

"About ten minutes ago, we wrapped up the girls junior varsity portion of our day, andAshbourne's Fighting Bear, Charlotte Walker, came out on top. Congratulations, Charlotte, and maybe now your coach will think twice about keeping you on the JV team.

"Right now, the varsity matches are about to begin. Before you all start waving those foils around, let me take a moment to remind you all that of the five schools here, only the top three will be advancing to the next qualifying meet. So good luck to all of you, and may the best fencers win."

When the referee signals them, Deryn and her opponent step onto the piste simultaneously, and after saluting they put their masks on. The call to begin is small and seemingly insignificant in comparison to all the noise in the gym, but Deryn relaxes visibly. Sometimes the anticipation is worse than anything else, really. The idea is more terrifying than the reality.

But for me, I can only hope that's true. I live in the constant fear of being discovered, all of it piling up inside me like there's a balloon inflating inside my chest, and at some times I think I'll explode from the stress of it all.

That balloon rises into my throat, and I swallow hard and refocus on Deryn's match. Though she's still far from professional, she really isn't bad. Her skills have improved a lot in the weeks since my schedule changed and I'm no longer in her class. She keeps her sword arm at the right level and her stance and posture are better than they were. Deryn's novice shows through only in her hesitation to strike and the lapse in her form when she does, as well as the skill level of her moves. But she's good, considering how long she's been fencing.

I feel as though Deryn fully deserves it when she wins.

At first, she doesn't realize it. She nods, and goes to take her place at the starting line again. I can't see Deryn's face when the other girl slumps and pulls off her mask, but there is a moment of stillness in her, and then she almost leaps off the piste in excitement. She tears off her own mask, and the grin that splits her face looks almost painful it's so big.

I can't help but break into a smile of my own at the look of her. Fitzroy, on my left, claps and cheers with me, and even sings something cheerful under his breath, like he often does. I suppose that's a side-effect of being in choir, always singing. It doesn't bother me, though, and I couldn't care less as Deryn steps off the piste and toward us.

My eyes narrow when I realize she isn't looking at Fitzroy and me, but past us. I turn, confused, and my stomach hardens.

Matt.

His team captain meeting must have finished sometime during Deryn's match, because he certainly wasn't here when it started. He takes a few steps toward Deryn, conveniently placing himself between us and her. I scowl as Matt pulls her into an embrace, and leans down to whisper something into her ear.

Her lips curl into a smile, showing white and slightly crooked teeth. She's flushed, though I'd like to think that's only from the match. Most of her hair has fallen out of its ponytail, dropping off to one side and revealing a scar on her neck several centimeters long.

My eyes narrow. How did she get that scar? Why don't I know about it? Does _Matt_ know she has it? With a mark that large, there has to be a significant story behind it.

Fitzroy's cheers have stopped as abruptly as mine. He gives me a knowing look and says, "Ouch, man. That's rough."

I blink at him a few times, trying to paste an innocent expression on my face. He shrugs. "Ah, well. Let's go see how the rest of the team did, then. Melissa's over at piste eleven, and she looks pretty happy; maybe she won, too." When I hesitate, eyes lingering on Matt's arm wrapped around Deryn's waist, Robert tugs on my sleeve. "Come on, Alek."

"Yeah," I say. "I'm coming."

**_A/N: I just have a few things to say before I let you all get back to your lives. First off, I'd sincerely like to thank you for clicking that link in your email (or however you got here), even though it's been two months since my last update. If I were my own reader, I would probably have been like "I don't even remember what's happening in that story. *Deletes email*" So thank you guys a ton.__  
_**

**_Secondly, for all you competitive fencers out there, don't despair. I really did do my research on fencing tournaments and how they're run, I just took a _lot_ of creative license with them. I hope it was still as enjoyable for you as it was for me :)_**

**_And lastly, please, please, PLEASE leave me a review! I love them so much, and they absolutely make my day. They also may or may not motivate me to write faster, which means an update sooner :) So review!_**


	10. The Ducks Stole Half My Dinner

_**A/N: I updated... in less than two months. Actually, in less than one. Hold your applause, please. So here's a little chappie to make you feel better about going back to school/work in the morning! **__**P.S. When you finish up, remember that I love reviews. Just saying.**_

To be completely frank, it's been a long day. At this point, I've been awake for at least twelve hours, and though that doesn't sound like much, it certainly feels like a lot when one is trying to operate on four hours of sleep.

But, as I heave a yawn large enough to feel a pop in my jaw, I tell myself I should be focusing on the match at hand, and not on how tired I am.

"Alek, wake up!" scolds Newkirk, snapping his fingers in front of my face. "We need you at your best right now!"

"I know, I know," I assure him, but he goes on as if he hasn't heard me.

"If you win this match, Alek, we _qualify_ for the next meet. The Fighting Bears have a two point lead on us right now, so if you beat this kid—he's fifth for their team, and you're second, so it shouldn't be hard—we'll pull ahead." The boy's excitement shows through in both his fast words and the way he pulls at his jacket or his hair every few seconds. "If you don't, we'll be stuck with just the non-qualifying meets for the rest of the season."

I roll my shoulders and stretch my neck. "No pressure or anything."

He sighs, brushing a bit of dirt off the back of my uniform. "It's important to the team, you know? Last year we didn't make it past the first meet, and it was my fault because I was too preoccupied by fighting with Matt to focus on fencing. I know it's not up to me, but I just don't want that to happen to the team again."

"Yeah," I agree, trying to force enthusiasm into my words. "Yeah, I'll do my best."

"And with you," continues Newkirk, "we might even make it to the State meet."

I groan. "But really, _no pressure_, right? You're not helping my nerves, Newkirk."

"Oh. Right. Good luck, then. I'm sure you'll do fine." He gives me a clap on the back and a sheepish grin before stepping back from the piste.

Standing still as I'm plugged into the electronic scoring system, I hold back another yawn. I cringe to think of how easy it would be to fall asleep if hunger wasn't eating at the edges of my tiredness, but I would have liked something more than the granola bar and yogurt I packed as lunch. And it's not as though I'm any more focused on fencing because of being hungry, just less likely to nod off because of how uncomfortable the rumbling in my stomach is.

"Ryan Thompson?" The voice belongs to the judge, who is looking at me expectantly.

I clear my throat. "Yes."

His eyebrows raise, pulling deeply wrinkled eyelids behind them. "Please take your starting position," he says almost tiredly.

"My apologies." I feel my face reddening as I step onto the piste, and although I would rather stare at the ground to hide the fact, I take the moment to study my opponent.

He is at least my height, if not taller, and his arms look a good bit longer than mine. I can use this to my advantage by getting in close, where he'll be forced into a smaller range of his mobility. It's impossible to tell if he is well muscled through the layers of his uniform, but I have to assume he is. The only thing I notice about his face before we salute and put our masks on is the smug grin that curls the edges of his lips.

It's already apparent that I'm faster than he is, even worn out as I am. As I get used to the weight of a foil in my hand, I can feel myself slipping into a calmer state of mind. A deep sigh makes moisture collect in my mask before it can escape through the metal mesh. I settle into a fighting stance, and my opponent mirrors the action. Moments later, the judge calls for us to begin.

My gaze flicks over every part of him at once, taking in the rhythm of his movements and the stiffness in his body. He's a better fencer than the boy I faced in the last round by far, but my skills are still beyond his. I have to wonder if, in the next round, my opponent will be more of a challenge.

The nervousness that has plagued me throughout the day jumps back into my throat with renewed intensity. When I was put on varsity, I decided that Ryan Thompson would never again be an exceptional fencer. So upon seeing the bracket this morning, I figured that a mediocre fencer wouldn't make it past the second round, and definitely not on to the semi-finals. That might draw attention, something I have to av–

"Point."

I nod and step back to my starting place. The other boy's shoulders droop slightly, but then he sets them square and takes a fighting stance. The judge's voice barks the command to begin again, and the boy launches a flurry of strikes, all of which I deflect with little difficulty.

But I'm not fencing like Ryan would, am I? Right now, in this moment, I am Aleksander. And even if the team is counting on Ryan to win this match, Alek is the one who can. And I care too much about my teammates to lose.

"Point."

The boy's shoulders and back are stiff as a rod now, betraying his anger at my having made two points on him. I pretend not to notice as we step back to the starting lines, but make a point of shaking out my arms to loosen them. If I could see through his mask, I'm sure the boy would be scowling at me now. And if he could see through my mask, he'd see me smirking.

Really, he's making this just too easy.

An embarrassingly loud rumbling noise interrupts my conversation, and I put a hand over my stomach as though that will quiet its hungry protests.

Rachel, walking next to me, laughs. "It seems someone's excited for dinner," she comments, brushing her ponytail behind her shoulder with her free hand, effectively hitting Newkirk in the face with it. The two have been inseparable since this morning. Even as we walk to the park a few blocks away from stadium and campus, they walk closer than any of the six of us, even Matt and Deryn. I feel like a third wheel at the moment, tacked awkwardly onto the side of the pairing, and I'm certain Robert must feel similarly next to Deryn and Matt, but the six of us wouldn't all fit abreast on the sidewalk.

I don't mind too much, though, as short as the walk is, and Rachel and Newkirk are rather entertaining. The girl is remarkably personable, especially considering she won the girls varsity tournament this morning and has every right to a large ego. "I'm starved as well," she continues. "Wasn't the concession stand food awful?"

Though the question is ostensibly aimed toward all of us, she looks to Newkirk as she flicks a bit of dirt off his blazer. "Absolutely," he agrees. "My hot dog was lukewarm."

Robert nods, tilting his head back toward us. "Mine too. And I think they watered down the ranch dressing to make it last longer." He skirts around a light pole, stepping on a few discarded cigarettes in the process. They crunch under his shoes, and he wrinkles his lip at them but continues walking.

"It's your fault that you're strange and put ranch on your hot dog," Newkirk tells him. "If you used ketchup, mustard, and pickles like a normal person, then watery ranch dressing wouldn't be an issue."

I watch my chuckle fog up a bit in the cool air, muttering, "I don't put anything on my hot dogs. Does that make me abnormal?"

The boy turns on me a look of horror. "You eat _plain hot dogs?_ That's worse than ranch. It's just–inhuman!" To make his point, he takes Rachel by the shoulders and places her between himself and me.

She rolls her eyes. "Such loyalty, Eugene. And what if I told you that I eat _my_ hot dogs plain, hmm?"

He pauses for a moment, thinking. "That's different; you're a girl, so you aren't human, anyway."

Deryn, several steps ahead, lets out a laugh. "Are we still in primary school? Be careful, or we'll get cooties on you," she threatens, and turns so she faces us, walking backwards. Matt takes a few moments to decide if he wants to do the same, and then shakes his head and stays facing forward.

We all slow to a stop at the edge of the park, clustering around a few benches but not sitting down. "Those pretzels look so _good,_" Robert says, eyeing a vendor about twenty meters away. "I can almost smell them! I'll be right back."

The wet grass squelches under his sneakers as he jogs off. There isn't a line, so the slouched man already has a soft pretzel wrapped in wax paper by the time Fitzroy arrives. He exchanges the pretzel for a bit of cash, and then nods a thank you for the business. His eyes watch Fitzroy as he runs back toward us.

"What, no ranch?" Newkirk asks, a sly grin tugging at his mouth. Robert doesn't dignify the comment with a response, but simply takes a massive bite out of the side of his pretzel.

"Aren't any of you going to get something to eat?" he inquires around the mouthful. "There's about twenty other carts around here; you don't _have_ to be as smart as me and get soft, warm, delicious pretzels."

My stomach rumbles again, but I try to ignore it by pulling my jacket tighter around myself, hands shoved deep into the pockets. I would love to have something to eat for dinner, but I didn't pack anything and I've been warned explicitly by Volger not to buy anything that isn't prepackaged or that I've seen prepared myself.

Newkirk rolls his eyes. "You're absolutely insane, Robert. You know that, don't you?"

"Of course. Now go and get something to eat. I feel right odd being the only one with food." He makes shooing motions with one hand, and with the other brings the pretzel up to his mouth to take another bite.

"That's not the only thing that makes you odd," Deryn says with a smile, and then dances away from Robert's playful swat. "I'm going to get dinner from over there." She points to a vendor that boasts a variety of foods, from scotch eggs to meat pies, and bounds off, trailing Matt behind her by their linked hands.

Scowling, I look away. Newkirk is conferring quietly with Rachel on which stall they should buy their food from. After a moment, the two set off, leaving Robert and I alone.

"Aren't you going to get something to eat?" He tugs his knit cap down lower on his head, covering ears that have turned pink in the chill.

I shake my head, glad for my own hat as I'm sure my recently shorn hair would do nothing to keep off the cold. "I'm not hungry," I tell him, though it's an awful lie and I know he doesn't believe it.

He eyes me warily, then shuffles a few steps closer. "If you need me to, I could buy you something to eat." He looks profoundly awkward as he says it, but I can tell he means every word. I bite my lip, not sure how to respond. It's difficult to wrap my mind around the idea that someone so common as Robert would be offering to pay for my food, as if I didn't have enough to pay for it on my own. But he doesn't know about my family's money–he doesn't know anything except the cheap Lunchables I eat at school and the second-hand clothes Klopp found for me a few days after we arrived, both to help stay unnoticed and because we didn't yet know if our accounts would be accessible.

"That's not necessary," I say by way of reply, but he doesn't seem convinced.

"It would be no trouble, really." We stand for a moment in silence, both of us unable to meet the other's gaze. "Just-–just ask, okay?"

I'm saved having to respond because Deryn and Matt have returned. Deryn has a foil-wrapped potato in one hand and a scotch egg in the other, and Matt carries a carton of cheese curds and two cans of soda. The other two are not far behind them, and they both have items wrapped in foil and bottled water.

"Let's find a table, shall we?" Matt suggests, waving his cheese curds at a few nearby. We follow him toward a circular table that will sit the six of us comfortably, everyone consumed by conversations about the meet.

"I do hope you aren't upset about this morning, Deryn," says Rachel with an apologetic smile.

Deryn shakes her head. "Not at all; in fact, I feel better that the person I lost to is also the girl who won. Then everyone else lost to you, too, aye?" She unwraps her baked potato and takes a bite out of the side, skin and all.

Rachel laughs. "I'm glad you see it that way, really. It would be awful to be on the outs with one of Eugene's friends so soon after I've met you."

We all quirk a grin at the use of Newkirk's first name, but none of us comment.

"Speaking of friends," Newkirk says, "wasn't Nathan going to come over after the boys finished their team meeting? He does know how to get here, doesn't he?"

"He's my brother, not my friend," Rachel corrects him. "There's a difference. But, yes, he shouldn't be far off now. I got a text from him a few minutes ago."

Robert, having finished his pretzel, crumples the tissue it had been wrapped in and stands. "Be back in a squick," he offers and dashes off to the nearest waste bin.

Popping a cheese curd in his mouth, Matt remarks, "This is just like old times, isn't it, Newkirk?"

The boy raises an eyebrow and folds back the edge of the foil on his food, exposing a cheeseburger. "Except that we're not tearing at each other's throats at the moment," he replies.

Matt clears his throat. "Indeed, and I quite like it this way. Remember year nine, we came to this same park and the ducks stole half of my dinner? I was so mad because I hadn't had anything to eat all barking day." He shakes his head, oblivious to the odd look Newkirk has fixed on him.

"Yes, I remember that," hedges Newkirk. "A lot has changed in two years," he reminds Matt, not subtly at all.

Fitzroy returns, now with a periodical in hand. "Before any of you say anything, yes I read the newspaper every day, yes I know how strange that makes me, and no, I don't care." He sits down next to me, dropping the papers on the table in front of him.

Newkirk's hands fly up in mock surrender. "So jaded for one so young." His tone drips with sarcasm. "I wasn't going to say anything except to ask for my horoscope."

"Don't lie to me, Eugene Newkirk. We all know you wanted the advice column."

"Guilty as charged. Hand it over, then, I haven't got all day," beckons Newkirk, reaching across the table and grasping a few random sheets of paper before tugging them from Robert's hands. Ignoring Fitzroy's scowl, he straightens the paper and begins to stare at it, though I'm not certain if he is actually reading.

I occupy my hands by picking at my fingernails, trying not to look too longingly at the food the others are eating. I don't want to give any of them the opportunity to offer to buy me something like Robert did–I'd have to refuse, and I can hardly tell them that I won't eat because I am afraid of being poisoned.

"I need page A four, Newkirk," Robert says. "It has the rest of the article I'm reading on it."

Newkirk passes the sheet back casually, asking, "Which one are you reading?"

"'Waiting for Prince Charming'," reads Fitzroy, scowling a bit as he says the title, "It's about the missing son of the assassinated nobleman and his wife, and does an awful lot of speculation as to where their son is now. I don't always care for Malone's writing, really."

I want to say something, but it feels like the temperature has dropped below zero and I've frozen solid. My fingers feel twice their size and made of lead, but I force myself to continue picking at them, as if the war is no concern of mine, and they aren't talking about me. But below that, I can barely breathe and blood pounds in my ears, dulling the sounds around me.

"You read the newspaper often enough that you have opinions on the journalists?" Matt asks, a single eyebrow raised.

"Yes. But it's an interesting article, really," Fitzroy continues.

I take a deep, steadying breath. "I thought he went to America," I offer, trying to sound nonchalant but also knowing what a thin line I walk.

"That or France," adds Deryn around a bite of her scotch egg.

Robert shakes his head. "Wherever the lad is, that's not what the article really focuses on. Mostly, it's discussing the effects his disappearance has had on the country and the war, and–hey, Rachel, is that your brother?"

It feels like a punch to the stomach. I _need_ to know what that article says, and though my fingers itch to reach over and snatch it from him I turn with the rest of the group to see a boy at the edge of the park, looking lost.

Rachel raises an arm and waves. "Nathan! Over here!"

The boy, looking relieved, hurries over and takes a seat next to Rachel and Newkirk, who have squeezed together even closer. As he settles in, I realize this is the boy I fenced earlier, winning my team a qualifying place. In the back of my mind, I find myself hoping that he isn't sore about having lost, especially considering that his team pulled ahead of the Ipswich Zeppelins and took one of the other qualifying spots.

He seems to recognize me, too. Our eyes meet and he nods, and I return the gesture before his gaze moves on to Fitzroy. I can't help but notice that it lingers there.

Conversations start and continue, but I find it hard to pay attention. After a while, Matt happens to look at his watch and informs us, with a surprising amount of disappointment, that we need to leave. Reluctant as we are, we gather ourselves and set off.

"Just a moment," Robert says, shoving a hand in his pocket and drawing out a few folded bills. "I want a sandwich." He pauses for a moment, scrunches up his face and says, "Blisters! And I need to call my mom, too."

Newkirk groans. "We don't have time for this, Robert."

"What if," Fitzroy says, thinking, "Alek, can you go get me a turkey and cheese sandwich from the stand over there?"

His eyes betray nothing, but I think I know what he is doing. I look at the group around me, all fidgeting and anxious to leave. Grudgingly, I accept the cash from Robert. "Tomatoes and ranch if they have it, please."

I narrow my eyes at him and walk away, closing the distance to the cart shortly.

"I'll take your order when you're ready." The woman's accent isn't quite British, but I can't place it. She looks oddly out of place here, among all the middle-aged men working the rest of the food stands.

"One turkey and cheese sandwich, please. With tomatoes and ranch dressing."

The woman says nothing, reaching into the refrigerated compartment on her cart and pulling out a prepackaged sandwich. She unwraps it and pulls back the top layer of bread, throws on a few tomato slices and a squirt of ranch dressing, and then closes the sandwich again before slicing it in half. It is, at least, given a fresh wrapping of parchment paper before she holds out her hand for payment.

"Three pounds," she says, and I reluctantly exchange the cash Robert gave me for the sandwich.

Upon my return to the group, we head off at a fast pace.

"How's your mother?" I ask Robert.

"Hmm?" he replies, then nods quickly. "Oh, brilliant. I–uh–needed to make sure the dog got fed this afternoon."

My eyes roll, almost of their own will. "Of course."

Fitzroy takes the sandwich from me with a grin, promptly announcing, "This is way bigger than I thought it was going to be. I expected one of the finger sandwiches my grandmum serves at Sunday tea; I don't think I can eat all this! Alek, you want half?"

My glare is colder than ice. Apparently, I wasn't clear enough earlier in that I don't want his charity. I've opened my mouth to tell him, yet again, that _I'm not hungry_, when my stomach emits its loudest roar yet.

Wonderful.

I hold out my hand, sighing. He detaches half of the sub-style sandwich from its wrapping and places it in my palm. "Thank you," I tell him, but I don't know if I mean it or not.

It doesn't _look_ dangerous, really. And Robert is eating the sandwich, too, so I doubt it is the least bit harmful. Slowly, I raise the food to my mouth and take a bite.

Even though it tastes a bit unusual–I assume it is the ranch dressing, something I've never tried on anything other than salad–my stomach ceases its growling and starts digesting quietly.

I feel considerably more content by the time we make it back to the gym. Rachel and Newkirk look awfully upset to say goodbye, and Robert and Nathan must know each other as well because they exchange farewells. We toss our bags onto the bus by the lights of the parking lot, because it grows darker with each passing minute.

The darkness does nothing to dampen the mood, and I listen with half-interest to my friends chatter about the events of the day. Robert, though, is as quiet as I am and has taken on a rather sickly expression. I wonder if I look the same–my stomach is churning now, and with each bump on the road I wince.

The bus grinds to a halt in the parking lot of the school. As I stand, my vision immediately swims and my limbs feel like stone.

I don't make it down the bus steps before I fall, vomiting.


End file.
